


For Fear That You'll Find Out (How I'm Imagining You)

by Ennaess



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (Between Geralt and Jaskier), (Geralt being the voyeur), (between Valdo and Jaskier), (put this in the multi category because the sex party has multiple genders in attendance, Accidental Voyeurism, Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hate Sex, Jaskier in panties, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Lingerie, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Multi, Mutual Pining, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sex Party, Sexy Times, Slow Burn, Taunting, Vampirism, but the main sex scenes are m/m), idiots to lovers, shaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:08:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27945065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ennaess/pseuds/Ennaess
Summary: Looking for a way to distract himself from his growing feelings for Jaskier, Geralt accepts a contract to hunt a higher vampire at a posh sex party.Meanwhile, looking for a way to distract himself from his growing feelings for Geralt, Jaskier accepts an invitation to accompany Valdo Marx to a posh sex party.Of course, unbeknownst to them, they're at the same party. What could possibly go wrong?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Male Character(s), Jaskier | Dandelion/Valdo Marx
Comments: 319
Kudos: 482





	1. Geralt

**Author's Note:**

> Besides the angst and smut, there's a bit of real actual plot in this one, folks. Surprise!  
> (Title from Talk by Hozier cuz I can't title on my own to save my life.)  
> 

Geralt needed a contract to clear his head--to give him something to focus on besides Jaskier. He'd left the bard behind in Novigrad about a week ago, and at the time he'd barely been able to tear himself away.

It was getting worse, this... _infatuation_ of his.

He couldn't pinpoint when it had started--when he'd first looked at Jaskier and seen him differently. The feeling had been a subtle thing, creeping up on him, petting softly up the back of his neck like the soothing touch of a lover. He'd been slow to realize that the warmth that arose in his cheeks and chest whenever he looked at Jaskier was also accompanied by a warmth in his groin.

And that warmth had become a tingling, which had become a throbbing, which had now become a full-on _ache._

He ached for Jaskier's hands, his voice. His skin, his scent. His smile, his nearness. His everything. 

Geralt wanted it all in a desperate way that was dangerous. His desire for Jaskier was a constant buzz in the back of his skull, and he needed to drown it out.

And so, a contract.

A distraction.

The lone slip of parchment on the noticeboard read cleanly, though it was composed in the over-wrought vernacular of Redanian nobility. A Madame Marlena de Cublurette was to hold a party of "the most intimate nature" on the grounds of her "modest" estate in two night's time, and sought a mage or witcher who could deal with any prowling vampires who might decide the wine-and-spice infused blood of highly aroused humans was to their liking.

The offered pay was good--better than Geralt was used to for this type of work--and it came with room and board for both himself and his horse.

The finer points of his employment were to be discussed in person, per usual.

The estate was, of course, not modest. And Geralt had been right in guessing that "the most intimate nature" was polite-society's code for a lavish orgy.

There had been an incident at Madame de Cublurette's last sex party. One of the guests--who, exactly, was still unknown--had apparently been a higher vampire and had decided to indulge their baser nature while in attendance.

"I don't go in for blood play," Madame de Cublurettete told Geralt as they strolled through her garden. She was a comely woman in her mid-forties, with a shock of gray running through her chestnut hair. She carried herself like a duchess from Toussaint, but spoke with a high-Redanian accent. "And yet, it wouldn't have been a problem, except whoever it was fed on Louisa LeRoux, and she's such a delicate thing. A waif, a mere slip. She couldn't stand to lose even a little blood and passed out on one of the refreshment tables. Paté and red wine _everywhere_."

She paused by a large lavender bush and turned to Geralt, gently plucking something offensive off his pauldron before letting her hand stray higher to slowly bush his hair away from his neck. She smiled to herself, as though admiring him. He made no indication he noticed the gesture was suggestive.

"Now," she said, retracting her hand, "Louisa insisted the bloodletting--" Marlena let the word roll distastefully off her tongue-- "Was consensual, but could not pinpoint the vampire. She only knew it was a man."

"Why couldn't she say who it was?" Geralt asked, leaning toward the lavender and inhaling deeply--almost subconsciously--letting the warm familiarity of the scent settle into his chest.

Lavender, honeysuckle, and lute rosin.

Three scents that would always remind him of--

"Well, he was _masked_ , of course," Marlena said flippantly, as though he were dense.

"Of course," he echoed. _As though nobles would openly attend a tawdry sex party without hiding their identities from one another, how silly of me_.

"The point is, I abhor blood and can't have my guests staggering home from drained humors instead of drink. Not to mention, if he'd taken just a few teaspoons more of Louisa's blood, she could have died. Will you accept the contract?"

He pretended to think on it. It was never a good idea to appear too over-eager with nobility. "Yes," he said after a time.

"Good. Then let me show you to your room."

#

The night of the party, Geralt prepared himself by sharpening his silver sword and gently polishing it with vampire oil. He pulled out the potions he thought he'd need--tawny owl, katakan and chort decoctions--and lined them up on the vanity before settling himself on the plush bearskin rug to mediate until it was time for him to make his way down to the great hall. 

The way he meditated had...changed, these last few years. He used to begin by emptying his mind of thoughts and willing all feeling from his limbs, just like he'd been taught at Kaer Morhen. But those mediations, though rejuvenating, always left him emotionally hollow after, and adrift. Like he'd set something down and forgotten where he'd put it.

Nowadays, instead, he started with music. Imagined music. Lute strings softly strummed, accompanied by gentle humming.

In the beginning, he'd pretended the voice was nothing special and no one specific, but he could only lie to himself for so long.

It was Jaskier's voice, and Jaskier's playing.

After the music came the visualizations. Eyes--so blue--peering at him under dark lashes.

Again, at first he'd pretended not to know his own mind, not to realize they were Jaskier's eyes.

Then the sensations: soft lips on his. Careful fingers on his jaw. Hot breath on his cheek.

His heart rate would always tick up, spiking just before he dropped into deep, steady comfort. He let the imagined lips trail over his body, and each place they touched, the tension melted away--was _kissed_ away. Bit by bit, his muscles and joints relaxed as those lips sensually caressed every part of him, and his mind drifted, until there was nothing in it but the distant echo of lute music, and a swirling vision of cornflower blue.

After such mediations, he always felt reinvigorated. Full. Alive.

There was one downside, but he'd become adept at avoiding the pitfalls. If he tripped up and thought the name _Jaskier_ , his mind would spiral into a terrible series of questions: _what would Jaskier think if he knew you envisioned him this way? What would he do if he knew you wanted him to touch you this way? What would he say? What would he call you?_

_How fast do you think he'd leave you?_

This evening, luckily, he avoided such damning thoughts.

But, before he could slip deep enough into himself, footsteps hurried towards his room and a knock fell on the door.

Sighing, he rose and answered. His host and a servant stood at the door.

"Put these on," Marlena instructed.

The valet came forward, pushing past Geralt, his arms laden with accoutrements. He set them neatly on the dressing table before giving a little bow. "Will the gentleman be needing assistance with his dressing?"

"No," Geralt said sharply, before striding over to examine the pile of what appeared to be mostly black and white fabric. "What's this?" he asked.

Marlena let out a deep sigh, as though his ignorance was taxing. "A doublet in the latest Nilfgaardian fashion, a golden mask--which all the attendants will be wearing--a hooded cloak to hide your shockingly-recognizable hair, white porter's gloves as is proper for a servant at such a gathering, and appropriate trousers and footwear for the ensemble."

"These are slippers," Geralt said, hooking his pointer finger inside the heel and holding up the flimsy thing for display. "You want me to hunt a vampire in slippers?"

"Hunt is perhaps a bit of a stretch. I don't expect you to have to kill anyone--especially when they could be one of my dearest friends. I simply need you to make sure there's no feeding. Whoever he is, he can have all the pleasures he likes under my roof, save that one."

"And you want me to hide my identity."

"A witcher at the party would cause unease. If you're about, then it's logical to conclude a monster is about, and such things are incredibly distracting when one is trying to lose themself to pleasure. It would be best if you presented as just another attendant: there to serve refreshments, retrieve toys, aid in cleanup, and the like."

"I understand. But this cloak is thin, it won't hide my swords."

"Again, I don't expect you to fight anyone, so you won't be needing them."

"But--"

"If you find the vampire feeding, I simply want you to discreetly escort him from the premises and identify him for me, so I may have a talk with him about proper party etiquette. The cloak will, at the very least, be suitable for concealing a silver dagger with which to persuade him, won't it?"

"You seem awfully at ease with the idea of a vampire in your midst. And awfully sure he'll take your _outing him_ in stride."

"Please, I'm not some uneducated bog-dweller. There have been higher vampires in the upper echelons of society since the Conjunction. I don't see what the point is getting all upset about it now--as long as they don’t _snack_ on my _guests_ , you understand. As for outing him, you can reassure him that his secret is safe with me, as long as he and I can agree on this finer point."

Geralt picked up the golden mask, looked it over. It would cover his entire face, and was nothing more than an attractive mimicry of a human male's countenance. "All of the attendants, their masks will be the same?"

"Yes. I'll even have some of them wear hooded cloaks to match yours. You won't stand out at all."

#

The candelabras in the great hall were sparse, so as to set the mood; dim lighting made the pupils dilate and the skin glow, and helped to further skew identities. Everything glittered with gold and copper accents. The dishes set out at the various refreshment tables were gold, and the wine goblets were crystal. Brocade furniture in gold and black--divans, chaise lounges, loveseats--had been set about here and there to create intimate seating, lounging, and laying areas in the large space. And off the hall, on two sides, were small nooks filled with pillows and curtained by strands of sparkling obsidian beads.

But as Geralt entered the great hall, the first thing he noticed wasn't the décor. It was the aroma. The scent of arousal, accompanied by various perfumes all meant to raise the pulse and heat the blood--vanilla, cinnamon, ginger, jasmine--filled the fine manor. 

The second thing he noticed was the low hum of moans and sighs. The night was very young, and no one had yet divested themselves of the lavish robes and lingerie they'd worn for the occasion--everyone's hair was still perfectly quaffed and their paint and masks perfectly in place--but the foreplay had started.

Perhaps fifty, sixty guests filled the great hall, most now engaged in teasing touches and suggestive conversation. Here a pair of women bit into a large strawberry together, kissing as the juices ran down their chins. There, two men had a woman between them, one with his hand up her skirt, tickling her inner thigh, while the other kissed the pronounced cleft of her breast. And yet over there were three men, none too subtly pawing at each other's clothed erections while they spoke of boring things like finances and trade routes.

Geralt walked, seemingly unbothered, through the throng.

He was here to do a job, but to say he was... _unaffected..._ by the goings on would be a lie.

Marlena had clearly chosen her guest list not based on their appetites or political standings, but on her own personal tastes. Regardless of age or gender or race, everyone's bodies were somewhat similarly built: well-toned, long, and lithe.

The host herself sat on a throne in one corner of the room, from which she had a fantastic view of most of the proceedings. She was dressed in a billowing golden gown, her hair done up in combs and jewels.

Geralt was surprised to see her alone.

"Do you not partake yourself?" he asked, striding up next to her. He picked up a nearby decanter and offered to refresh her cup. She held it out for him.

She sipped her wine appreciatively, and as Geralt set the decanter down, said "Oh, I do," in the slyest of tones. Slowly, she lifted her skirts, revealing a fully dressed man in a black half-mask diligently licking her swollen cunt. Even though he now had an audience, the man didn't so much as slow down.

Geralt didn't react, though heat started to pool in his groin. 

"You should feel free to partake as well," she said. The twinkle in her eye suggested she would not mind at all if he wanted to join the other man beneath her dress.

"I'm working."

"You strike me as a man who knows how to multitask," she said with a slight hitch in her breath as the man's fingers joined his tongue in her pussy. "But, if you'd prefer to save such things until the guests are all gone and the job is done, I can have any number of people sent up to your bedchamber after midnight. Any number."

A faint whiff of lavender and honeysuckle caught Geralt's attention, pulling his gaze away from the man so eagerly performing cunnilingus. He scanned the crowd, but did not see Jaskier. Immediately, he chided himself, thinking he must have imagined it.

These days, when he was aroused and alone, touching himself, he always imagined it. Always. So often, apparently calling up ghosts of the scent had become second nature.

"Thank you," he said absently, having already forgotten what she'd offered.

Unsettled, he hurried away, trying to refocus on his task.

A small quartet started to play near the main entryway, and everywhere in the room, bodies began to writhe. Bodices were ripped, buttons were popped, skirts and ties and all manner of finery was thrown aside or crumpled beneath eager fists.

The sweet aroma of arousal and the musky scent of sex rolled off the guests in waves.

Geralt did his best to ignore the moans and gasps, and the wet sounds of mouths and cunts and dripping oil. He paused only briefly in his patrol to watch two men--naked and entwined on a chaise--finger each other open while they kissed. Geralt had to bite the inside of his cheek as he willed himself not to imagine two very different men in their place.

Suddenly, Geralt whirled, eyes darting through the room as the sharp, metallic tang of blood hit his nose--the scent a specific combination of copper and flowers he'd recognize anywhere. The scent of not just any blood...

...but of _Jaskier's_ blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Please no one hate me for starting yet another WIP ;-P )


	2. Jaskier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love how I'm like "mild angst" and you guys are all "Sure, Jan." 😆

_Earlier that Afternoon_

Jaskier needed a divergence to fuzzy his head--to take away the sharpness of his thoughts, his needs, his wants.

It was getting worse, this long-suffering, _eternal pining_ of his.

He could still clearly recall the exact moment he'd fallen for the White Wolf. It wasn't love at first sight, no, though that certainly would have been more poetic. He hadn't gazed across that tavern in Posada and instantly recognized that he was going to devote his entire life to the handsome, brooding man in the corner.

No. Jaskier had fallen for Geralt much later.

Much, much later.

A whole six hours later.

For most people, it might be difficult to develop romantic inclinations when one is tied up and being beaten for the crimes of armies long gone, but not so for Jaskier. No matter the pain in his abdomen, a sharply barked, " _Leave off!_ " had been his undoing, the start of a constant ache in his chest that had absolutely nothing to do with being an elven punching bag.

As it stood, Geralt had punched Jaskier _himself_ , and yet as soon as it was someone else doing the punching, his protectiveness--his deep care for someone who was, for all intents and purposes, still a stranger--had come roaring to the surface. That was when Jaskier had realized that Geralt's first attempts to scare him off had been just another aspect of that protectiveness.

The tag-along human can't get summarily captured, tortured, and killed by the king of the elves if he's not tagging along in the first place.

And so, from then on, Jaskier had pined.

But a few years ago, his pining had gotten worse. He'd started to over-analyze and fixate on every little thing Geralt did.

If Geralt laid out his bedroll two feet away from Jaskier's instead of the customary six, Jaskier became hyper-aware of the closeness, and of his own body--his own ticks and twitches--worried that his fidgeting might annoy the witcher.

When Geralt's gaze lingered on Jaskier's lips for a fraction of a second too long after he smiled, Jaskier's mouth would tingle, and he'd bite his lips until they were chapped and raw.

Jaskier had always stolen food off Geralt's plate, but now sometimes Geralt nudged his plate _in Jaskier's direction_ , and Jaskier's heart would swell and he'd feel instantly full and lose his appetite.

When Geralt chose to sit on the same side of a tavern table as Jaskier--instead of across from him--Jaskier would turn stiff and stick his hands between his own knees, for fear he'd bush an unintended pinky against Geralt's thigh.

And, every time, no matter the incident or action, Jaskier's internal monologue would always devolve into nothing but _"Why did Geralt do that? Why did Geralt do that?"_ for the rest of the day.

Jaskier had last seen Geralt over a week ago, and yet he _still_ couldn't stop thinking about how they'd parted.

They'd stood close together, outside the city stables in Novigrad. Geralt had Roach all tacked and ready to go, nothing left for him to do but mount his steed and be on his way. But he'd seemed...reluctant.

"See you in Oxenfurt in three weeks?" Jaskier had suggested.

"I was hoping we'd meet sooner," Geralt said.

 _Why? Why do you want that?_ Jaskier immediately asked--silently, of course. "Yes, sure," he said dumbly.

"Oxenfurt, two weeks," Geralt had said definitively. 

"Two weeks," Jaskier agreed with a smile, licking his lips nervously.

He could have _sworn_ Geralt's gaze had tracked his tongue, but he knew it was only wishful thinking.

Then Geralt had clapped Jaskier's left shoulder in farewell. But, instead of simply falling away after, the witcher's hand had trailed down Jaskier's arm, all the way to his wrist, to his _hand_ , which Geralt had briefly squeezed before releasing him.

Butterflies _swarmed_ in Jaskier's stomach.

And the bard had stood there stupidly, the entire left side of his body alight with Geralt's touch, as the witcher mounted Roach and went off on his way.

Jaskier could still feel the ghost of that stroke _\--_ the firmness of Geralt's grip, the tenderness of his trailing fingers.

Why had Geralt done that?

Why _the fuck_ had he done that?

Jaskier couldn't stop thinking about it.

And so, a divergence was in order.

A distraction.

A drink! Yes, a drink was a good distraction.

He made his way down from his room in the little inn to the small bar on the ground floor. He paid for two drinks--one for himself, aaaand one for himself--before settling in to get good and soused.

Halfway through his first bitter pint, an irritatingly handsome man--who sported dark curls, expensive clothes, and a brilliant smile that Jaskier wanted to punch--took up the barstool next to his.

"Leave me alone, Valdo," Jaskier groused. "Can't you see I'm trying to drown my sorrows in...what is this again?" he asked the barman.

Valdo didn't wait for the barman's reply. "What I see is _wallowing_ ," he said snidely. "I know your career isn't what you want it to be, but we can't all be, well, _me_ , now can we?" he asked.

"It's not about my career," Jaskier said, before throwing back as much of his remaining pint as he could in one go. It was always better to be drunk when forced to converse with the likes of Valdo Marx.

"Fallen on hard financial times, then? I mean, judging by your wardrobe..."

"I didn't come here to be mocked," Jaskier spat.

"Well then perhaps you should have picked a watering hole less frequented by the musical community. If you didn't want people you know to see you, you shouldn't have--"

"Why are you even talking to me?" Jaskier demanded, turning fully toward the man he absolutely hated most on the entire Continent.

"Well," Valdo huffed, "I'm sorry if I saw an old friend in need and thought I might know a way to raise his spirits. Guess I'll think twice next time I see you having a pity-party in a tavern somewhere." He slipped off the stool, turned to go.

Jaskier caught him by a stupidly well-tailored sleeve. "Wait. What way? What are you talking about?"

"There's this party..." He said slowly, leaning in conspiratorially.

Jaskier took a deep, steadying breath, and got a whiff of Valdo's perfume. Gods, he smelled good. Like saffron and lemon. Why did the bastard have to smell so good? "What party?" Jaskier demanded.

One corner of Valdo's perfectly-bowed lips quirked up slyly, and he lifted a finger to lightly trace a tendon on the back of Jaskier's hand. "Marlena de Cublurette is throwing one of her famous, private, _highly intimate_ gatherings at her nearby estate this evening," he said softly. "And I have an invite, which includes a plus one. You could accompany me."

Jaskier didn't like the way his body instantly-- _traitorously_ \--reacted to Valdo's oh-so familiar touch. He felt warm, and his pulse throbbed in his groin.

Fucking Valdo and his fucking fingers. Jaskier had half a mind to tell him to keep them to himself.

He also had half a mind to grab Valdo by the back of the head and stick his tongue down his throat. Just to see the man's eyes bug out, of course.

"And by _accompany_ , you mean...?"

"That we'd _fuck_ ," Valdo said, rolling his eyes. "Come now, I knew you were talentless but I didn't think you were slow. It's an orgy. Where people _fuck_. Your arse has always proven to be an exceptionally good place to warm my cock, so take the compliment and say yes."

Jaskier's teeth grated and his fist clenched around his tankard. Gods, Valdo was absolutely _infuriating_.

He was such a...a...a _hack_. And a nag!

And...a...a _rube_!

 _And_ a lout!

...And a really fucking good lay.

And an orgy _did_ sound like a very _distracting_ sort of distraction.

Valdo moved closer, pushing fully into Jaskier's personal space, laying a hand high on Jaskier's thigh and dipping his face into the crook of Jaskier's neck. He brushed his stupid mouth over Jaskier's already flushed skin, and Jaskier shivered. "Say yes," Valdo whispered against his throat.

Jaskier swallowed thickly, closing his eyes--hating himself. "Yeah, alright," he said softly, under his breath.

" _Wonderful_ ," Valdo replied, tone dark and wicked.


	3. Jaskier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valdo has some proclivities I hadn't exactly planned for, so I've updated the tags.

Valdo sent a carriage for Jaskier that evening, which, oddly, made Jaskier feel like a kept man. Before the driver let him aboard, he held out a wooden box for Jaskier to open. "The master requires you wear this when I take you to meet him."

"The _master_ requires it, does he?" Jaskier snorted, lifting the lid of the proffered box. Inside, on a red velvet cushion, lay a black masquerade mask, with two delicate--almost feminine--gold satyr's horns spiraling away from the brow. A simple gold star adorned the middle of the forehead.

It was lovely.

But Jaskier wanted to refuse.

"The event you will be attending requires a mask, per the host's instructions," the driver said, noting his hesitancy.

Well, as long as he wasn't wearing it simply to please Valdo. He lifted it from its cushion and secured it over his brow. "Wish he'd told me it would be black and gold, I would have worn a doublet to match." As it were, he wore purple, lined with emerald green.

The driver smirked as though he knew something Jaskier didn't, and opened the carriage door.

The trip to the estate was short, and Valdo met him out in the drive, a small black traveling bag in-hand.

The mask he wore was clearly the mate to Jaskier's; black and gold, just the same, except its horns were large-- _thick_ \--and the brow and the bridge of the nose were both more pronounced. Instead of a star, a crescent moon graced the center. The mask framed the cut of his cheekbones well, balancing out the jut of his jawline just right. An attractive dusting of stubble covered his chin, and his curls fell beautifully about the mask; one loc spiraled in a perfectly whirled Q over his forehead.

 _His_ doublet was blood red.

He was so pretty, Jaskier wanted to slap him.

"What's in there?" Jaskier asked, indicating the bag as he stepped out of the carriage, waving off Valdo's offered helping-hand.

"Things we'll need," he replied cryptically, retracting his hand only to put out his arm for Jaskier to take.

Jaskier ignored him, striding past, toward the gate.

The estate was sprawling, the architecture and gardens both clearly inspired by the lavish wineries in Toussiant. There was even a hedge maze, its entrance lit by beautiful hanging paper lanterns.

The early evening air smelled of lavender and jasmine and any number of floral scents meant to either sooth or excite. The sun had set not long ago, so there was just a hint of soft yellow to the edge of the twilight sky.

Overall, the ambiance was enchanting. 

At the main entrance, Valdo and Jaskier were greeted by a valet. He was dressed head to toe in black, save for his white gloves and a golden mask, which hid his entire face. After checking Valdo's invitation, he waved them to the left of the foyer. "This way, gentlemen, to the changing rooms. I trust you brought appropriate attire?"

"Appropriate attire?" Jaskier asked. "I thought this was a sex party. Shouldn't _no_ attire be the appropriate--?"

"You'll have to excuse my companion," Valdo cut in, "He is but a mere hayseed from a backwater county."

" _Why you_ \--"

"I've brought suitable attire for the both of us," Valdo continued. "So please, lead on."

Another attendant, dressed just the same, stood inside the doorway of the large changing room, which was decked out not unlike the changing rooms in a bathhouse, with a long bench set in the center and warm braziers in each corner. There were various chests and drawers in which they could safely place their clothes and any other baubles they might wish to set aside, as well as trays laid out with various atomizers, mint leaves, and small candies--should one be interested in refreshing their scent.

There was one other guest in the changing room when they entered. After giving them a nod, he hurried out, dressed in nothing but a pair of silk breeches and his own elaborate mask.

Before Jaskier could so much as ask what, exactly, he was meant to be changing into, Valdo reached into his bag and handed Jaskier what, at first glance, appeared to be little more than a small wad of black netting. When he shook it out, it was a skimpy pair of delicate underwear--made of rouched tulle, which created a small bustle-like layering in the rear.

Jaskier simply blinked at it for a moment, wondering where the rest of it was, before he slowly caught on that this was it--all the clothes Valdo intended him to wear. "You call _this_ suitable attire? I can't believe you."

"Stop complaining and put them on," Valdo said, pulling out his own black something-or-other from the bag. "They're made to compliment a backside as round as yours--"

"These were _clearly_ made for a woman," Jaskier interrupted.

"--and the ruffles will frame your bum quite nicely. I'd like to admire your arse before I stick my cock in it." 

Of course, for himself, Valdo had brought a plush looking robe with sleek lines and a perfectly fitted waist. Jaskier watched him put it on, growing more and more irritated about the scant amount of fabric he'd been allotted.

"Come on," Jaskier whined. "You get to be effortlessly comfortable in loungewear while I have to don a whisp like this?"

"Jaskier," Valdo said, voice pitching low, turning rich. Pulling the robe's belt taut around his middle, he shifted closer to stand in front of his rival. With a hum, he curled a finger under Jaskier's chin, tipping his face up. "When I bring someone to a party like this, I want _everyone_ to want them." He unabashedly let his gaze trail greedily over the other man's face, then down his torso and back up again. "And I know how to put a bow on an already attractive package. There might not be a lot going on in that head of yours, but it can't be denied that one glance at you can instantly soak panties and stiffen cocks that haven't so much as twitched in ages. You are intolerable as an artist, but an absolute inspiration in the bedroom." He clicked his teeth at Jaskier. "So, stop whining, accept your role as a damned sex god, and put the knickers _on_."

Slowly, he drew the hook of his finger down the front of Jaskier's throat, grazing over his adam's apple. His eyes were dark behind his mask, tracking the movement of his finger, gaze hard and hungry like a predator's.

And Jaskier felt like prey.

He swallowed thickly, his throat bobbing beneath Valdo's touch.

After a moment, Valdo leaned in, lips parted.

Jaskier closed his eyes, anticipating a kiss.

A kiss that never came.

Instead, Valdo reclaimed his hand and swept past Jaskier. With a self-satisfied hum, he patted him too firmly on the back, making Jaskier jerk forward awkwardly.

 _Fucking bastard_.

Jaskier pursed his lips angrily, taking a deep breath through his nose, before looking down at the slip of sheer fabric in his hand. He sighed, resigned.

 _In for a copper, in for a crown_.

He quickly undressed, then stepped into the knickers. They were tight, and cradled his cock in such a way as to make it bulge obscenely between his legs. The bottom slid up the cleft of his backside, framing his cheeks, and the layered ruffles were gossamer-light, fanning out to accentuate the swell.

He hated that they made him feel sexy as hell.

 _What would Geralt say if he saw you in these? He'd probably laugh at you_. _Call you ridiculous. Or worse_.

 _Forget about him,_ he chided himself. _You're here to forget about him. It doesn't matter what he'd think_.

_Valdo thinks you'll look good in them._

_I don't fucking care what Valdo thinks_.

As though he'd read his mind, Valdo came up behind Jaskier. He pressed himself flush against his back, buried his face in his hair and moaned. "Gods, I knew they'd fit you perfectly," he purred, reaching down to grab a handful of Jaskier's arse.

Jaskier gasped as a dirty, degrading thrill ran up his groin.

"There is to be no sexual activity in the changing rooms," warned the attendant at the door.

Jaskier startled. He'd forgotten the man was there.

"House rules," the attendant added apologetically.

"Yes, yes," Valdo grumbled. "House rules, house rules," he said dismissively, stepping back.

"What are they?" Jaskier asked. "All the house rules?"

Valdo ticked each rule off on his fingers. "One, sexual activity is allowed in pre-approved places _only_. Two, all touching requires prior consent. Three, no mind-altering substances on the premises save wine. Four, all sexual activity must end promptly at the stroke of midnight. Let's see, there's one more, a newer one..."

"No blood sport," the attendant provided.

"That's right. Five, no blood. Five simple rules." Valdo agreed. He took Jaskier's hand. "Come on. We're late. The night is already in full swing, and I want to show you off."


	4. Jaskier

Valdo firmly entwined his fingers with Jaskier's, yanking him through the manor to the grand hall. As they entered the maginficent room, two more attendants--each sporting hooded cloaks as well as masks--welcomed them and drew the lay of the land, pointing out the refreshments, the towels, the oils, the "private" alcoves, and the tables laden with various glass, wood, and stone sex toys.

While Valdo thanked them, Jaskier tried to get the other troubadour to let go of his hand, but he of course simply squeezed all the tighter.

"Come, we must greet our host before we indulge," Valdo said, dragging him toward a woman seated on a throne. "Marlena! Beautiful as always."

The woman smiled brightly. "Hello, gentlemen. My, don't you make a handsome couple?"

 _Not a couple_ , Jaskier wanted to bark, but he held his tongue.

Marlena's eyes roamed all the way from Jaskier's bare feet, to his bulge, to his naked chest, and he did his best not to preen. Valdo _knew_ Jaskier loved being admired-- _adored_ \--and Jaskier would not give him the satisfaction of knowing his stupid panty-ploy was working.

"Thank you, my dear," Valdo said, slinging an arm low over Jaskier's hips to pull him flush against his side. "He's just a little something I picked up this afternoon."

The urge to slap him returned, full-force. Instead, Jaskier tried to smile, but knew he was gritting his teeth.

Just then, an attractive man--dressed in a long cape, loose white shirt, satin trousers, and a mask of curled, golden bat wings--strode past. His gaze lingered far too long on their host, but when it shifted, it shifted to Jaskier.

Their eyes met, and--despite the mask--Jaskier recognized the look on his face. It was one of deep, resigned melancholy.

This man was pining for someone, too. Perhaps he'd also come here to forget, to get his beloved off his mind.

Neither Marlena nor Valdo paid the man any attention, but Jaskier was instantly drawn to him. He turned in Valdo's grasp, trying to keep him in his sights, but Valdo reasserted his hold, yanking Jaskier back around.

"Looks as though your companion is eager to enjoy himself," Marlena laughed lightly, but not unkindly. "Go. Have fun."

"You're a delight as always," Valdo said with a small bow.

"Maybe later I'll show you just _how delightful_ I can be," she said with a wink.

Valdo spun them both away, then pulled Jaskier along the party's perimeter. Jaskier looked for the man in the winged mask, but didn't see him.

"Someone else turn your head already?" Valdo teased.

"Doesn't matter. He's disappeared."

"Never fear, we'll find you someone pretty you can gawk at while I mount you."

Just to spite him, Jaskier tried to be obtuse about his desires--about who he found especially attractive. But when they came to a pair, a man and woman stretched out on a chaise--with the man fitted snugly on top of her--Jaskier's feet paused of their own accord.

The man had similar proportions to Geralt, and long, straight blond hair he'd pulled back in a neat ponytail. His mask was black, shaped like a snarling wolf, with a furled muzzle and bared teeth.

It _wasn't_ Geralt, that was plain to see. His skin was much darker, and his naked back was unblemished. But now that he'd thought of Geralt, Jaskier couldn't shake him from his mind. Couldn't help but see him in the way the man pawed at the woman's corset, in the way he rolled his still-clothed hips, in the ferocity behind his desire.

Jaskier's cock thickened between his legs, and he gasped when Valdo pushed him over to a nearby chair, made him brace his hands on the arm of it, so that he could still see the couple.

"Do you like them?" Valdo whispered in his ear, pushing up behind him, trailing his hands up Jaskier's backside.

With lips parted--already panting--Jaskier nodded.

"Remind you of someone?" Valdo asked smugly.

Jaskier cringed and shook his head. _No_.

Valdo let out a small chuckle that said he didn't believe him, then sank to his knees. Without preamble, he grabbed Jaskier's arse cheeks in both hands and pressed them together, kneading them with his deft fingers--clearly admiring their heft and their swell.

Jaskier let out another gasp as Valdo's lips alighted on his arse, on the fabric right over his cleft.

"Keep watching them," Valdo directed, snaking one hand between Jaskier's legs to squeeze his sac.

Jaskier didn't want to obey. He wanted to do the exact opposite of whatever Valdo told him to do. If Valdo told him to jump, he would sit. If he told him to sing, he would scream. If he told him to swim, he'd figure out a way to harness the sheer force of his pettiness to walk on fucking water.

But even as everything in him insisted he not listen to Valdo, his gaze remained affixed to the man in the wolf mask.

His rival rubbed his face against Jaskier's backside, breathing deeply and moaning. Soon he had Jaskier's cheeks thumbed apart, and was sucking at the tulle directly over his entrance, soaking the fabric.

Jaskier bit his lip, steadied his hips. His body wanted to push back against Valdo's hot mouth, to let loose an appreciative groan, but he couldn't bring himself to let go, to fully sink into the hedonism and let himself simply enjoy.

He refused to forget that he hated the man between his legs. Hated him with every fiber of his being.

So he focused on the man in the wolf mask.

But, of course, that was filled with its own perils.

Even if the man hadn't been similar to Geralt in any fashion, a mask such as his could only ever remind Jaskier of his own White Wolf.

As Valdo mouthed at Jaskier's backside, the man's hand worked between his own body and the woman's, pressing low until his thick fingers clearly curled inside her bare cunt. She gasped and drew one leg higher, throwing it over his shoulder.

And the man turned, catching Jaskier in his sights--his gaze burgeoning will sudden want, as though his own desire surprised him. 

It reminded Jaskier of the last time he and Geralt had visited a brothel. How Geralt had looked back at him as his chosen courtesan had taken his hand in hers, attempting to lead him upstairs.

It had been a strange look.

He'd almost appeared...reluctant. Reluctant to leave Jaskier.

Why had Geralt done that? Why would he look at him that way?

Jaskier knew the answer, of course: Geralt _hadn't_ looked at him in an especially strange way. Not really. Jaskier had simply been projecting, seeing what he wanted to see. He longed for Geralt's eyes to linger. For Geralt to hesitate to bed someone else. And so, he'd imagined his witcher had done just that.

Jaskier kept wanting there to be more between them, so he kept willfully misinterpreting everything Geralt did, placing more meaning, more importance, on every stray glance and touch.

Why did Geralt sometimes lay his bedroll so close to Jaskier's? Because they'd had to build a smaller fire, of course.

Why did he sometimes sit on the same side of the table as Jaskier? To better see the door, no doubt.

Why did he sometimes push his plate in Jaskier's direction? Because they had little coin between them and it wouldn't do for even a scrap of food to go to waste.

Everything Geralt did was logical. It was _Jaskier_ who wanted to ascribe something more emotional to moments of pure practicality.

These little gestures meant nothing.

Just as the sudden longing in this masked-man's gaze meant nothing.

He might have looked at Jaskier like he wanted him, but he still pushed his cock into the woman beneath him.

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut as she arched her back and drew the man deeper.

Jaskier clenched his teeth, felt his shoulders tense. He couldn't be here, out in the open. He'd thought an orgy--with bodies writhing everywhere--would be the perfect distraction, but it was too easy to project his fantasies onto every man he saw. He needed... he needed to be somewhere he could just focus on Valdo. Somewhere where he could imagine they were simply back in their schoolboy days at Oxenfurt, fumbling at each other in the dark.

"Take me into one of the private alcoves," he panted, even as Valdo still drooled all over his knickers. "I can't...I can't watch them."

"Why not?" Valdo rose to his feet, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before pressing his prominent erection against Jaskier's bum. _"He_ clearly likes watching _you."_

He was right--the man's heated gaze hadn't left him, even as he began thrusting into the woman in earnest. When Valdo curled his fingers against Jaskier's pectorals, scratching through his chest hair, the blond man's lip curled, and he fucked more firmly into the willing heat around him.

Jaskier pushed himself off the armrest, spun on Valdo, grabbing him by the collar of his robe. "Take me somewhere else," he said, looking pointedly, heatedly, at Valdo's flushed lips. " _Take me_."

_I just want to forget...forget my own delusions. I have to stop torturing myself with hope. I have to stop looking for the barest hint that Geralt wants me. Because he doesn't. He never has. He never will._

_I don't mean to him what he means to me._

"Take me, Valdo, _now_."

Valdo bit his lip and groaned. "Oh, you always did know how to beg so pretty."


	5. Jaskier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be clear, Valdo is Not A Nice Dude ™ (This isn't like Dandelion over in Sweat and Sex and Sin, there is no risk of this going poly--quite the opposite.) 
> 
> Specific CW for this and upcoming chapters: non-consensual taunting and shaming during sex.

As a quartet started to play, Jaskier grabbed Valdo's face with both hands and kissed him. Kissed him hard.

Far too hard.

It was a brutal, biting thing--filled with hunger, but none of the affection such a gesture was meant to hold.

It was Valdo who broke away first, who leaned back with a gasp. "What's gotten into you?" he asked, his cocky façade only slightly cracked. "Been too long since you've had a good dicking, has it?"

"Yes," Jaskier hissed at him, drowning out his own melancholy with bitterness, purposefully stoking the hot-blooded irritation that Valdo always brought out in him, turning it into a fire--into something that wanted to take and consume.

He bit at Valdo again, feeling self-satisfied with the way his rival shrank under the onslaught--the way his back bowed and his hands flailed in the vicinity of Jaskier's waist.

But Valdo wouldn't let him dominate their exchange for long. He never did. The bastard reveled in getting Jaskier to demure, to wilt. So, Jaskier would cling to his bravado for as long as he could. " _Pick an alcove_ , Valdo," he said pointedly.

Valdo took his hand once more, his pull less like a master tugging on a leash this time and more as it should be--more like a guiding lover. "Over there," he said, nodding to an alcove on the opposite end of the room from where their host sat--the nook which was, in a sense, the most secluded. It couldn't be easily seen into from the center of the room, and no couches or lounges pointed toward it. Only a small table of refreshments near the beaded curtain might draw another guest.

Of course, Jaskier didn't care so much about being seen as having to see. Having to watch any number of men--who he could easily imagine were Geralt--take their pleasure.

The pair dashed off toward the alcove, but halfway there, someone caught Jaskier around the other wrist, jerking them both to a halt.

The grip was firm, sure, and made Jaskier's heart jolt in his chest. He snapped his head around to face his captor, only to find it was the man in the winged mask.

" _Don't_ ," the man said beseechingly.

Jaskier furrowed his brow, confused. "Don't--?"

"It won't fix it," he insisted earnestly. "Nothing will."

"Excuse me," Valdo said, haughty, clearly thinking the man meant to steal Jaskier away. "But we're busy."

The man's hold on Jaskier didn't loosen. If anything, it became harder, his nails digging into Jaskier's wrist. Each of his fingers was tipped with a filigreed claw, and though the jewelry was clearly meant to be solely decorative, it sank firmly into the bard's flesh all the same.

"Don't," he said again.

And then Jaskier realized he'd been right--he and this man had recognized the same longing in each other. He clearly knew Valdo was not the one Jaskier pined for.

But how dare this stranger assume to know what sort of balm would or would not sooth Jaskier's heart? He could seek whatever solace he liked, _thank you very much_ , whether it be in drink or drug or in the dreaded, demeaning arms of fucking Valdo Marx.

Jaskier wrenched his hand away, clearly catching the man by surprise, as he did not lighten his grip. Jaskier hissed as one of the claws raked across his wrist, raising a red line, splitting the skin just enough to call forth a droplet of blood. "Like he said, busy," Jaskier insisted, cradling his arm to his chest.

The man in the winged masked looked hurt by the rebuke, but nodded and walked away.

"The nerve of some people," Valdo scoffed, tugging Jaskier along once more, swiping a vial of oil from a nearby table.

"Yeah," Jaskier agreed vaguely. "The nerve."

How dare the bewinged man care about a stranger? How dare he recognize the pain in Jaskier and assume he could do something about it? How dare he try to stop Jaskier from making what was obviously--painfully, irreconcilably--a terrible mistake?

The nerve.

It wasn't as though Jaskier needed warned off Valdo, after all. He _knew_ \--knew sleeping with his rival was a bad idea. Because it was always a bad idea. Consistently, a bad idea.

But that was it, what he needed: the consistency, the reliability. Valdo always proved to be an infuriating person and a magnificent lay. Always.

Jaskier _always_ knew what he was getting with Valdo. There were no surprises, no longing for something more. There would be a thorough fuck, followed by scathing pillow talk, and then Jaskier would return to his shitty room at the shitty inn--physically sated, exhausted--and black out.

There would be no golden eyes or pale scars or white hair in his dreams. No soft touches. No warm lips. No _thump...thump...thump_ of a comforting, achingly slow heartbeat.

His subconscious wouldn't be able torture him in his sleep, because he wouldn't dream.

There would be nothing but perfectly painless oblivion.

That was all he was chasing, now. There was nothing that could distract him enough during his waking hours, he realized. He needed the relief Valdo could give him--the gift of nothingness.

When they reached the alcove, Valdo unceremoniously shoved him through the thin curtain--beads tinkling like tiny chimes--and Jaskier realized he'd lost the upper hand. Somewhere between the wolf and the bat and the beads, Valdo had reclaimed his status as _The One In Charge Here_ , much to Jaskier's chagrin.

"Hands and knees," Valdo ordered.

Without arguing, Jaskier sank into position atop the alcove's many pillows. Here there was a slip of color besides black and gold; some of the pillows were the deepest purple. He tried to focus the color as Valdo dropped to his knees behind him.

Jaskier expected to feel Valdo's cock butt up against him, or a finger unceremoniously breaching him.

Instead, Valdo wrenched the knickers aside, tongue darting into his entrance as soon as it was exposed.

Pleasure shot up to Jaskier's ribs and seeped through his sac, making his trapped cock throb. His spine bowed, and he threw his head back, gasping.

Valdo didn't bother to bite down on his moans, clearly reveling in both Jaskier's reaction and the taste of him. "Always so nice and clean for me," he said, voice breathy, pulling back to bite at the swell of one cheek. "Fuck, you smell so good. You make me so hard, you fucking prick."

"Eat me," Jaskier snapped, never having intended a double entendre to be taken so literally in his entire life.

Valdo didn't hesitate to comply.

And Jaskier let himself sink into euphoria, let himself forget who he was and why he was here. He became someone without a care in the world, with nothing to concern himself with except how long he could keep Valdo's mouth on him, working him open.

It wouldn't take long to get him relaxed enough to take a cock. He'd stretched himself during his bath this afternoon, knowing both he and Valdo preferred to skip the preamble.

Soon, his rival had two fingers in him as well as his tongue.

"Gods damned good for nothing except taking my cock," Valdo mumbled, sitting up and giving one of Jaskier's arse cheeks a hardy slap before unstopping the oil.

"Says the man who couldn't write a hit if his life depended on it," Jaskier sniped back.

"Pandering to the masses is exactly what makes you such a waste," Valdo said, upending the vial over the furrow of Jaskier's backside.

"Fuck, that's _cold_ , you bastard."

"The oil, or my all-too accurate critique of your sorry excuse for an existence?" He shoved three oiled fingers into Jaskier, immediately locating his prostate and curling his digits against it.

Jaskier writhed against his hand, wanting to return the insult, but finding his tongue had forgotten how to form words.

Every move Valdo made was maddeningly precise. The two of them had been hate-fucking on and off for so long they knew where all their shared buttons were. But they never fucked often enough to fall into a rut, to make it feel routine. Which was for the best--Jaskier never wanted to get _comfortable_ with Valdo, in any way, shape or form.

"Fuck me, you jealous plodder," Jaskier bit out.

"Me? _Jealous_?" Valdo chuckled callously.

"You've always been jealous," Jaskier gasped as Valdo petted _just so_ over his prostate. "People love me and that fucking eats you up."

"No one with good taste has ever loved you," Valdo snapped, yanking his fingers free. " _Ever_."

Jaskier looked over his shoulder, glaring as Valdo pulled the tie from his robe with a flourish. The housecoat fell open, revealing his lithe body.

He had less chest hair than Jaskier, but it was darker and curled pleasingly. His treasure trail was thick, and led the eye straight to his impressive cock--ruddy and ready.

With the way his robe hung from his shoulders, the way his mask framed his face and the horns curled away from his temples, he looked like an incubus. An incubus ready to feed. 

The sight of him made Jaskier's sac tighten and his dick throb and his fucking head _ache_. He had to fight the urge to jump him--to push him flat onto his back before sitting on his fucking prick.

"Get in me you, artless, fopping toad-licker," Jaskier gritted out. He just wanted to get brutally fucked by the man he despised, was that so much to ask?

" _Toad-licker_? That's a new one--fitting, given where my tongue's just been." He inched himself forward, making sure to pull the knickers further aside before slapping the head of his dick against Jaskier's exposed backside.

Jaskier's fingers turned to claws against the pillows, and his eyes rolled back as his hips bucked unbidden. Every _smack smack_ of Valdo's cock against his skin left a sticky smear of precome, and Jaskier's hole eagerly clenched around nothing, anticipating how perfectly that cock would fit inside him.

 _Not as perfect as Geralt's cock_ , his mind provided. _No cock would fill me as good as--_

 _Shut up, shut up, shut up_.

His heart clenched. The constant, deep longing he'd been able to shove away for mere moments came raging back.

As Valdo's cock smacked down against him again, for a second--in Jaskier's mind--it was Geralt's.

It was Geralt behind him. Geralt getting ready to mount him, to fuck him, to make love to--

" _Stop fucking around and plough me_ ," Jaskier demanded, anger flaring in his gut--anger at Valdo, himself, at everything.

"Greedy, Julian," Valdo chided. But he was done teasing. Gently, he pressed his cock against Jaskier's entrance.

And Jaskier's hips snapped back, taking Valdo deep in one, demanding go.

They both made a series of unintelligible sounds, and Jaskier fisted the fine fabrics beneath him. His dick was still trapped inside the panties, and now he dribbled into them, soaking them with his precome. One way or another, he was sure the knickers weren't getting out of this intact. Would he leave them irreparably stained with his spend, or would Valdo would tear them to shreds first?

After only a moment, clutching the tulle in one hand and Jaskier's hip with the other, Valdo pulled back and snapped forward.

The glide inside Jaskier was perfect. Valdo's cock wasn't especially thick, but it was long, and he could reach so fucking _deep_.

"Harder," Jaskier demanded immediately, and Valdo complied.

Together, they set a fierce pace. Swift, harsh, and satisfying. Perfectly mind-numbing in its brutality.

Until Valdo started fucking _humming_. A stiff, unmoving melody. One of his own songs, for certain.

Jaskier did his best to ignore it, until Valdo got bolder, began softly singing under his breath. Narcissistic bastard did always like the sound of his own gods damned voice, made sense that he'd find his own singing erotic. "Are you seriously going to serenade me?" he snapped.

"Forgive me for being a romantic," Valdo shot back before picking up his tune again.

"You're lucky you fuck better than you sing," Jaskier barked, rolling his hips in a way that made Valdo's high note turn sharp before morphing into a keen.

"Do I?" Valdo asked sarcastically. Curling himself over Jaskier's back, he bent close to his ear, then drew his tongue erotically over the shell.

Jaskier shivered, and Valdo purred deep in his chest.

"The real question is..." he said darkly, "Do I fuck better than your witcher?"


	6. Jaskier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, here we go, angsty time.

Jaskier tensed.

He wanted to scream, _Don't you_ fucking _talk about him,_ but knew it would come out as a desperate whimper--would betray all the emotion he was urgently trying to hide, trying to have Valdo plough out of him and into the _gods damned abyss_.

So, instead, he reached for a classic. " _Fuck you_ , Valdo."

The smarmy prick _laughed_.

Gods, how did the bastard even know to prod him with this particular hot poker? He'd never said a word to Valdo about his feelings for Geralt. _Would_ never--he could never trust him with such a secret, fragile part of himself.

Jaskier's cheeks started to burn, and he dropped his head, ashamed.

"Come on, tell me," Valdo murmured, biting at Jaskier's ear before rearing back upright to give him a particularly punishing thrust. "Who fucks you better?"

Jaskier knew the bastard wouldn't drop it unless he got a reply. He'd take Jaskier's silence as the tell it obviously was.

"We've never... He doesn't..." Jaskier closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath. "We’ve never fucked," he spat, hoping his harshness would cover up his longing.

" _Still_?"

Behind his mask, Jaskier's brow furrowed. He didn't like Valdo's tone. How... _knowing_ it was. "What do you mean _still_?"

"Oh, Julian, you poor sick pup. You must not even realize..." He trailed off, clearly leading Jaskier, making him push, forcing him to ask.

"Realize what?" he demanded, jaw clenched. Whatever the whoreson thought he knew--

Valdo leaned forward over him again, bracing himself against the pillows on either side of Jaskier's head so that he could whisper directly into his ear. "The last time I had you on my cock...you said his name."

Jaskier's eyes went wide. He stopped meeting Valdo's thrusts. "I-I did _not_ ," he spluttered.

"You did," Valdo reassured him, rutting forward with all the more force. "You were obviously picturing him while I fucked you."

Jaskier's mind whirled as he tried to remember their last time--tried to discern whether Valdo was pulling his leg or if he'd really, truly, fucked up and gone and said Geralt's _fucking name_.

They'd been at a court wedding. They'd both performed. The bride's parents--very _particular_ sorts of nobles--had thought dueling minstrels was cheeky or natty or some such nonsense.

Geralt had been there, keeping guard. He hadn't been hired, exactly, but the witcher was at a loss for what to do with himself at a wedding elsewise. The bride's parents had insisted a witcher in black armor was too drab for a celebration, so they'd gone and loaned him one of their son's white linen shirts, which had draped over his torso just oh-so scrumptiously.

Jaskier hadn't been able to keep his eyes off Geralt all evening.

And after everything was said and done, Valdo had dragged Jaskier to the stables, pulled him up into the hayloft, and they'd fucked while Jaskier...

While Jaskier had definitely imagined tearing that shirt off Geralt. With his teeth.

Now, Valdo nuzzled the back of his head. "Come now, don't get all embarrassed. It was delicious. Did you know you get more enthusiastic when you think about him? You're a much better lay when you're imagining his cock inside you."

Valdo yanked hard on the knickers, and Jaskier gasped as it pulled the fabric taut over his dick.

"So, now I must to know." Valdo hummed thoughtfully, hips still working steadily. "Why _hasn't_ he fucked you? Who wouldn't jump at the chance to have this warm, willing hole of yours?"

"Mind your own _fucking_ business." Jaskier was proud of himself for keeping his voice steady. For sounding angry instead of pained.

"Seems your _arse_ \--" he said with a pointed thrust-- "is my business. Maybe I should thank him for leaving you be. After all, if the rumors about witchers are true, his cock would ruin you, wouldn't it? Leave you gaping. You'd never be tight enough for me ever again."

He sat up, dragging his nails down Jaskier's spine as he went, making him hiss. "So..." he said slowly, tauntingly. " _Are_ the rumors true?"

Jaskier's face was hot, flushed. He burned with humiliation. Of all the people who could have heard him say Geralt's name in a moment of weakness, why, _why_ did it have to be Valdo?

"Are you imagining him right now? His _thick, fat, cock_ \--" he punctuated each word with a punitive jab-- "pounding into you?"

On the contrary, Jaskier was trying _not_ to think about Geralt. He was trying _very hard_ not to imagine how good he'd feel, all toned and firm. How good he'd smell, like leather and warm oil. How amazing he'd sound grunting and moaning, and maybe even _sighing_ Jaskier's name, and--

Jaskier gritted his teeth, shook his head. "Shut up."

Ah, there it was. A tremor in his tone. The slightest hint of a true plea.

A sign of weakness.

As good as rolling over and showing his soft belly to a predator.

" _Why_ hasn't _he_ had _you_?" Valdo demanded, hips still punctuating his words, tone both sinister and full of delight. "Don't tell me his mutations made him choosy, and he's one of those boring deviants who only fucks women? Or that he's immune to the charms of such a pert backside? Maybe it's opportunity that's been lacking? Perhaps you just need to bend over naked right in front of him, arse prepped and open. Maybe then you'd get lucky, and he'd trip and stick his dick in you."

Valdo was obviously having far too much fun to realize he'd pushed too far. Farther than he'd ever pushed before. Going after each other's careers was one thing, but this-- "Because that's the truth of it right there, isn’t it?" he prodded. "Doesn't matter what the reason is..."

_Don't say it. Just stop talking._

Jaskier's arms started to shake, and he couldn't hold himself up under Valdo's pounding anymore. He collapsed forward onto his elbows while Valdo made sure his hips stayed up, his backside presented.

"You want him, but can't have him," Valdo growled, folding over Jaskier, mouthing at the knobs of his spine, clearly enjoying the way Jaskier was trembling. "You'll sooner get struck by lightning than entice him into your bed."

"Stop it, please," Jaskier whispered.

"Let's play pretend, shall we?" Valdo said slyly, every word cruel and bitter. "I can be a good sport. I can give you what you really want. Who are you imagining right now? Who's fucking you?"

"Shut up." His own voice was so small, so distant. "Shut the fuck up, Valdo."

"Say his name."

"Stop. _Don't_. Don't make me..."

" _Say it_."

A startled gasp came from the alcove's entrance, and Jaskier glanced over to see one of the masked-and-hooded attendants staring at them through the beaded curtain. The servant's posture was rigid. He stood as though frozen, as though he hadn't actually expected to see two men fucking.

Strange, given the whole _formal orgy_ thing.

The eyelets of the attendant's mask were dark, obscuring his gaze, but Jaskier assumed he was wide-eyed. The bard knew what he must look like bouncing on Valdo's cock, shivering under the force of his own terrible emotions: Sloppy, pathetic. With his skin flushed, and his hair mussed, and his spine bowed, and his arse pushed up and back like a bitch in heat.

Valdo, the fucker, suddenly rolled his hips just right--had Jaskier gasping and licking his lips.

A sick sort of bliss flooded through his system.

The attendant shivered, bracing himself on the wall of the alcove's entrance. He was clearly affected by their coupling, swaying where he stood.

The man was broad. Big.

Yet another stranger who could so easily be...

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head.

"Say his name for me," Valdo growled, and Jaskier instantly forgot their audience.

"I told you to _shut up_ ," he hissed.

Valdo was right. He couldn't have Geralt. He could _never_ have him. It had been nearly _seventeen years_ , and Jaskier might be a pining idiot, but at least he was a realistic, self-aware pining idiot. There'd been plenty of opportunities for them to move their relationship in this direction--shared campsites, shared caves, shared beds. Plenty of baths and bathhouses. He and the witcher had seen each other naked on more occasions than he could possibly be expected to recall, and yet...

Nothing.

There was an undeniable closeness and intimacy about their life together--which was exactly why Jaskier had found himself going so mad recently--but surely if Geralt had felt even a spark of heat or a twinkle of romantic longing when he looked at Jaskier, _something_ would have come of it.

Jaskier clenched his teeth.

 _Damn it_.

_Fuck._

_Fucking hell_.

He should have known Valdo, the sick bastard, would pinpoint this exact pain and twist it around to use as a weapon.

"I _don't want_ to think about him right now," he snapped, fighting the tremble in his lips. "Don't make me think about him," he pleaded, throat tight. "Not while we're... Not like this. _Please_."

"Oh, but you get so tense when you do," Valdo purred. "Clench up all tight." He gave Jaskier a particularly mean-spirited thrust. " _So tight_."

"Leave him out of this."

"Say his name."

"No."

"Fucking say it or I'll stop fucking you."

"You _wouldn't_ ," Jaskier spat.

"It's an orgy, plenty of available arse to go around. Dick, too. But I know how to do _this_ \--" he swirled his hips and Jaskier's back arched-- "Just the way you like, don't I? So, either say it or find someone else to get you off."

"Please..." Jaskier pleaded weakly.

Valdo stopped thrusting.

He _pulled out_.

 _No. Fuck no_.

Valdo did _not_ get to dredge up everything he felt for his witcher and then leave him bereft. Jaskier wasn't in the right frame of mind to seduce someone else, and he couldn't...he couldn't be alone right now. All by himself--hard and aching and wanting.

Wanting _so badly_.

Jaskier rolled over, snatched Valdo by the elbow as the other bard moved to stand.

"No, wait. Wait!"

 _Wait. Please_.

_I'll give you what you want._

"I'll say it," he whispered, and something in him died a little--how did Valdo always know how to make him feel cheap?

Valdo did, at the very least, wait. His eyes searched Jaskier's--their stare both hard and full of horrid mirth.

Jaskier swallowed dryly, then dropped his gaze. "Geralt," he mumbled--feeling both like an utter fool and like he was bargaining away the better part of himself--before declaring boldly, " _Geralt!_ Geralt, alright?"

There, he'd traded the truth of his desire--his _love_ \--for five more minutes of Valdo's cock. He'd turned Geralt's name--always so sweet on his lips--into the worst kind of coin.

Outside the curtain, there was a sharp intake of breath.

Valdo grinned from ear to ear, pushing Jaskier down, on his back this time. "Whose cock is it?"

"Geralt's," Jaskier whimpered, trying to spread his legs wider. But Valdo stopped him, made him pull his knees toward his chest. When Jaskier complied, Valdo worked the panties away from his hips, pushed them up to wrap around his knees, to keep his legs tied together.

Now his cock was exposed, caught between his thighs, and Valdo petted the underside of it lightly.

Jaskier shivered, head to toe. The beaded curtain shook, but he paid it no mind.

With his features lust-darkend, Valdo pushed on Jaskier's thighs, which effectively lifted his arse. Lining himself up, guiding his cock back to Jaskier's entrance, he demanded, "Tell me again. Who is it?"

Trembling, Jaskier drew a hand over his mouth, then his eyes. "It's Geralt," he croaked, feeling sad and sick and so _full of longing_ for a man he couldn’t have.

Valdo thrust forward, rewarding him for giving in, and Jaskier gasped, "It's Geralt inside me."

Even though the words felt like glass in his throat, he desperately wanted them to be true.


	7. Geralt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, all!

Blood. _Jaskier's_ blood.

What the fuck was Jaskier doing here?

Scratch that, Geralt knew _exactly_ what the fuck Jaskier was doing here. Getting his dick wet in some fine lady's gods-damned twat.

But if the idiot had gone and gotten himself sucked on by a bloody fucking vampire...

Geralt followed the scent of Jaskier through the orgy, entirely focused, completely oblivious to all other goings on. The aroma was light, faint. Muted by the mask he'd been forced to wear, and difficult to track in the haze of pheromones and perfumes.

He tried to clamp down on his worry, to reassure himself that no matter how bumbling Jaskier was--how _willing_ a snack--the vampire would likely let him live.

It was fine. He'd be fine.

So why was Geralt's pulse ratcheting up? Why were his nostrils flaring and his teeth gritting and his other witcher-senses sharpening, unbidden?

Why was _find Jaskier, find Jaskier, find Jaskier_ , such a pressing mantra in his mind?

He knew why, of course. Only half of his urgency could really be pinned on his concern for the bard's wellbeing. The other half...

It was more twisted, more complicated. More selfish.

If he found Jaskier, he could make him leave. Force him away from this party--away from the sea of bodies, away from someone else's touches and kisses, away from the dark, velvet warmth between a stranger's legs.

Geralt wouldn't even have to make up an excuse. _There's a vampire, it's not safe_.

He knew it was an awful, self-centered urge. What right did he have to chase Jaskier off the premises? To deny him his fun? He wasn't Jaskier's keeper, or nursemaid, or...or lover. He had no right to dictate who his bard did or did not sleep with.

He didn't even really have the right to think of him as _his_ bard.

Jaskier didn't belong to him.

They didn't belong to each other.

That last thought made Geralt's chest constrict, his lungs hitch.

He...he _wanted_ to belong to Jaskier.

What a stupid, stupid desire. Why would he want someone to lay claim to him? To wonder where he was every night? To expect him to be places? To expect him give them his undivided attention?

And why would he want those things from Jaskier, of all people?

Geralt needed to find a way to put an end to this useless infatuation. It was already too much of a distraction, stole too much of his attention. He was on a contract, he should be focused on the hunt, not this tightness in his chest and this worry in his heart. These thoughts, these feelings, would only see him injured in the end. 

The scent of blood led him into a darkened corner--all the way on the other side of the grand hall from Marlena's throne. A shiny, black beaded curtain gave the nook an illusion of privacy, but did nothing to muffle the slap of skin on skin, or mute the faint whispers and soft moans.

He caught snatches of conversation as he approached.

"...the truth of it... ...doesn't matter... ...can't have... ...struck by lightning..."

"Stop it, please."

That _stop it_ had Geralt picking up the pace. If someone had laid so much as a finger on Jaskier without permission--

"...be a good sport... ...I can give... ...imagining..."

The beads only partially obscured flashes of black fabric, creamy skin, and small glints of gold, all moving together beyond. Something in Geralt's gut twisted, and he felt his palms go sweaty in his gloves. And still, he moved forward, his mind refusing to put the pieces together, still urging him to make sure Jaskier was alright.

"Who's fucking you?" a faintly familiar voice demanded.

A sharp "Shut the fuck up, Valdo"--clearly from Jaskier--made Geralt's brows furrow.

Valdo? Valdo _Marx_?

"Say his name."

"Stop. _Don't_. Don't make me..."

Jaskier sounded...wrong. He sounded upset.

"Say it."

Geralt finally came to stand before the curtain, his gaze falling fully on the two forms beyond.

His heart stopped.

His breath left him.

He felt like he'd been punched in the gut.

He barely registered that there were two men in the alcove. His vision narrowed until there was only Jaskier. Only his bard, down on all fours, practically bare--save for the smallest, ruffleist pair of underthings Geralt had ever seen. And those underthings were yanked to the side, revealing his entrance, stuffed full with a long, well-oiled cock.

Jaskier's back bowed, and he looked over his shoulder, straight at Geralt. The bard had donned a horned mask that did nothing to hide his identity, but made something needy flare in Geralt's groin.

When Jaskier's gaze locked with his, the witcher froze--an unfamiliar panic shot through him, rooting him to the spot.

But there was no recognition in Jaskier's eyes. Just pure lust.

The bard bounced against the other man's pelvis, taking his dicking with enthusiasm, and Geralt's cock throbbed in its confines, thickening instantly.

He'd been able to maintain his composure while patrolling an orgy, but of course one look at Jaskier--naked, getting thoroughly ploughed, taking cock like he was fucking _made for it_ \--was enough to get his blood boiling.

The man behind him rolled his hips in a way that sent Jaskier's eyes rolling back in his head. Pure bliss parted his lips, had his tongue darting out over them, and Geralt's knees went weak.

The witcher braced himself against the arch of the nook's entrance, unable to keep himself upright without help.

He wanted to throw the beaded curtain aside and fall to his knees before Jaskier. He wanted to kiss the dip of his spine, and run his palms over his flanks, and ghost his hot breath over the cleft of his backside. He wanted to touch every bare inch of him with his fingertips, and then again with his mouth.

The very urges Geralt had taken this contract in order to forget now blazed to life, flaring through his body, making him grit his teeth and curl his fists tightly, lest he forget himself and _give in_.

 _It's an orgy_ , a sinister part of him whispered. _And Marlena encouraged you to partake_.

 _So partake_.

 _Take what you want_.

 _Take him_.

Jaskier suddenly squeezed his eyes shut, looked away. Geralt did the same.

"Say his name for me," the other man demanded--freeing Geralt, breaking the spell, allowing him to get control of himself, to fight off the impulse to rush in and claim Jaskier.

Geralt was sure now that it _was_ Marx behind Jaskier, which replaced some of Geralt's feral lust with confusion. Jaskier utterly hated Marx, why would he allow him to--?

"I told you to _shut up_ ," Jaskier hissed.

Geralt breathed deeply, searching for more blood and finding only the barest hint. Jaskier's over-all scent was full of lust and need and _distress_.

Geralt stiffened in a different way, then. This _was_ consensual, wasn't it? Marx wasn't--?

He prepared to jump through the beads for an entirely different reason.

"I _don't want_ to think about him right now," Jaskier gritted out, a plea in his voice. "Don't make me think about him."

Jaskier thrust back harder against Marx, clearly taking his cock with pleasure. Clearly participating. And Geralt had to catch himself again. Yes, this was consensual.

So why did Jaskier sound and smell so anguished?

"Not while we're..." Jaskier swallowed harshly. "Not like this. _Please_."

"Oh, but you get so tense when you do," Marx purred--clearly _taunting_ Jaskier. "Clench up all tight." He gave a particularly punitive thrust. " _So tight_."

A growl built in Geralt's chest, but he swallowed it down.

The fact that this _bastard_ had his hands and his...his _everything_...all over Jaskier, and _still_ saw fit to provoke him, was disgusting.

"Leave him out of this, _please_."

"Say his name."

"No."

Who the fuck were they even talking about? Clearly Jaskier was desperate not to have sex ruined by the thought of whoever it was, and yet Valdo Marx--the very man Jaskier had tried to murder via djinn--was already balls-deep inside him. Who else would Jaskier despise so? Enough that Marx would taunt him over his distaste?

"Fucking say it or I'll stop fucking you."

 _He told you_ no, _you slimy son of a_ \--

"You _wouldn't_ ," Jaskier spat.

"It's an orgy, plenty of available arse to go around. Dick, too. But I know how to do _this_ \--" he swirled his hips and Jaskier's back arched-- "Just the way you like, don't I? So, either say it or find someone else to get you off."

"Please..." Jaskier pleaded weakly.

Marx stopped, pulled out. His cock was shiny in the low light, wet and red from being inside Jaskier.

And Jaskier was left open and wanting, clenching down around nothing.

Geralt could weep for how badly he wanted to stick his tongue inside him.

Frantically, Jaskier flipped over and reached for Marx. "No, wait. Wait! I'll say it."

 _Let him go, Jaskier_ , Geralt thought, _You can do better._ _You don't need a lover who torments you this way, you can find_ \--

"Geralt," Jaskier whispered.

Geralt blinked, went cold. _Shit_ , Jaskier had realized he was here, _staring_ at them, and now-- 

" _Geralt!_ Geralt, alright?"

The witcher's heart stopped. 

And his mind _whirled_.

No, Jaskier hadn't realized he was there.

 _He_ was...

A pit opened in Geralt's chest, his stomach.

 _He_ was the man Jaskier _didn't_ want to think about during sex.

 _He_ was the dirty idea Marx was using to taunt Jaskier.

Those insidious questions that sometimes overpowered him when he meditated came now, unbidden: _What would Jaskier think if he knew you envisioned him this way? What would he do if he knew you wanted him to touch you this way? What would he say? What would he call you?_

_How fast do you think he'd leave you?_

Geralt bit his lip to keep it from trembling. It was one thing to know his desire and affections weren't requited, and quite another to realize Jaskier was _repulsed_ by him--by the very _idea_ of sex with _him_.

For all the times Jaskier had helped stich his wounds, or bathe him, or lathered him with ointment, Geralt wouldn't have guessed Jaskier would find the touch of him so... _so_...

But then again, that was all different. Jaskier was his friend, he was just helping. 

Geralt took a deep breath through his mouth to steady himself, to stop the tightness in his throat from growing, from overwhelming him.

He had never really had a hope that Jaskier might want him, but now...

"Whose cock is it?" Valdo demanded. 

"Geralt's," Jaskier whimpered, laying back, letting Valdo reposition him the way he wanted. Letting Marx fucking _twist_ those _fucking panties_ up around his legs. 

And then, there it was--Jaskier's cock, all pretty and mouth-watering and leaking.

Marx dragged one manicured finger up the throbbing underside and Geralt lost his mind. He twirled away from the sight, plastering his back to the wall, smacking the back of his head against it in frustration. The beaded curtain shook with the force of it.

"Tell me again," Marx demanded cruelly. "Who is it?"

"It's Geralt," Jaskier croaked--so _distraught_. "It's Geralt inside me."

Both of Geralt's hands went to his mask, clawing ineffectually. He wanted to tear it away and run, to leave this cursed manor and its dangerous visions behind. Who cared about some high-society vampire who only drank from the willing? Fuck the vampire. Fuck the contract. Fuck this party.

Fuck _Valdo Marx_.

Marx, who now let out a deep, dirty moan, clearly having tucked his dick back into Jaskier. "Fuck. Feel that? The way you clench down when you think about him? You get so fucking tight. It's the only way to get your slutty hole wrapped around my cock right." 

"I hate you," Jaskier gritted out.

Geralt felt sick to his stomach.

"What is it about him that makes your entire body go taut like that? Like a well-strung bow?"

" _Fuck you_. I said his name, now shut the fuck up and fuck me."

Geralt trembled all over. He'd never felt this way before, so utterly saddened and humiliated and... _bereft_.

He felt like he'd missed something. Some crucial understanding.

Jaskier cared for him like no one else ever had. Geralt knew, deep down, _that_ was the source of his longing for Jaskier. He enjoyed Jaskier as a person, enjoyed his company, yes, but he also enjoyed all the ways in which Jaskier regarded him. He looked at him like he'd truly _seen_ him. Seen into him. Like he understood him.

And Geralt had whished--dreamed--that Jaskier might one day see into him in yet another way. That he might long to uncover Geralt's desires just as readily as Geralt longed to uncover his.

He'd never sensed revulsion in Jaskier's touch before. He'd have scented it on him, wouldn't he? Jaskier often smelled _anxious_ around him, sure, and the bard would stiffen once in a while, when Geralt drew near, but that didn't mean...

Of course it did. _Of course_ it meant he was loath to touch him. Geralt had just been too _infatuated_ to properly read Jaskier's signals for what they were.

 _You were_ _sick to think of him that way in the first place_ , he chided himself. _He's your friend. You should show him more respect._

"Oh, fuck," Jaskier moaned. "Fuck, Valdo, I'm close."

Geralt screwed his eyes shut, banged his head against the wall once more in frustration.

"Say it--say his name when you come," Marx demanded, venom dripping from every word.

"Geralt," Jaskier murmured weakly, not yet spilling, but saying his name all the same.

He sounded pained, as though the word was agony in his mouth.

 _Don't make him do this_ , Geralt silently pleaded with Marx. _Don't do this to him_.

... _to the both of us_.

Geralt knew he shouldn't torture himself by standing here for a minute more. Shouldn't let himself share in Jaskier's shame as his bard was forced to say his name at the height of his physical pleasure when he clearly detested the taste of it on his tongue.

And yet he couldn't will himself to walk away.

"That's it, Julian," Marx huffed. "Come on my cock and say your witcher's name."

Jaskier whimpered. Geralt's chin jerked in the direction of the sound.

He wanted...he wanted to _see_...

 _Don't look. Don't look. You don’t have the right to look. Not when the very idea of you is torture for him_.

But Geralt was weak. He was weak and wretched and horrible, and he couldn't stop himself from turning, from peering through the curtain again.

Marx was ramming into Jaskier at speed. The rhythmic slap of their skin and the sound of their moans and the scent of their sex had Geralt's traitorous cock still pulsing in his trousers, despite his humiliation and self-loathing.

Jaskier had his head thrown back, his throat exposed, the knot of it bobbing as his pleasure built and he tried to catch his breath.

"G- _Geralt_ ," he cried--and it was a sob more than anything. There came a quick splash of white against his abdomen. Followed by another, and another.

The mask did nothing to keep the hot, bitter scent of Jaskier's semen from hitting Geralt's nose.

The witcher's balls drew up tight, and he shoved his fist against his mouth, tightening everything in his body to keep himself from coming in his trousers.

Gods, Jaskier was beautiful. Brow all sweaty around the curve of his mask, hair all mussed, body flushed, chest heaving.

And with _his_ name on his lips--terrible when it should have been wonderful.

Marx groaned as Jaskier clearly clenched down hard around him. He gave a few more pointed thrusts before pulling out, letting Jaskier legs fall so he could climb over them to straddle Jaskier's hips. Quickly, he stroked his own shaft until he, too, was spilling onto Jaskier's belly with a shout.

They both sat there for a moment, trembling through their aftershocks, panting hard.

"Always such a sweet fuck, Julian," Marx gasped after a time. He leaned over and kissed Jaskier's cheek, then patted it patronizingly before standing. "Hope you enjoyed imagining that prick's prick inside you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I do believe our host offered me a round, and there are so many other delights to uncover before the night ends. The carriage will be waiting out front for you at midnight. Have fun."

As Marx moved to leave the alcove, Geralt turned away, hiding himself further behind the brim of his hood, pretending to look over the small offering of fruits and cheeses on the table nearby. Marx brushed the beaded curtain aside, exiting in a pheromone cloud of smugness and satisfaction.

The troubadour paused for a moment, straightening his robe, retying the belt. "Saw you watching us," he said to Geralt's back.

The witcher tensed.

"He's got a great arse," Marx continued. "Likes it ploughed rough. Don't know if your employer has given you leave to fuck the guests if they request it, but he'd no doubt enjoy getting mounted by someone of your...stature. I'd go in now, if I were you. Slip your dick in while he's still breathless."

Geralt gritted his teeth, said nothing. His fingers twitched toward his dagger.

"Hurry, or he's likely to find some other cock to plug that greedy hole of his." With that, Marx walked away.

The instant Jaskier's rival was gone, Geralt turned back to the alcove, scenting sadness.

He risked peeking past the beads, and his heart clenched.

Jaskier was still stretched out on the pillows, though his body had gone rigid and he'd curled his knees up and turned his head away from the nook's door. The black panties were still tangled around his legs, and he was covered in come--his, Valdo's. Clearly he didn't have the wherewithal to get up and cross the small space to grab a towel from the helpfully provided stack.

Suddenly, the bard shook with a barely contained sob, one hand flying up to cover his mouth as the salty tang of tears hit Geralt's nose with a force.

Geralt was sure Marx hadn't hurt him--not _physically_ , anyway.

No, what he'd done to Jaskier was much worse.

With a decisive, vicious _hmm_ Geralt turned, curled his lip and drew his dagger. He stalked a few feet in the direction Marx had disappeared, seeing red.

Ultimately, he stopped. Thought better of it. Sheathed the knife. He couldn't slit a man's throat just because he'd made Jaskier sad, no matter how badly he wanted to.

But he needed to find some kind of catharsis for Jaskier. He wanted to comfort him as himself--as his friend--to tell him everything was alright and Marx was a monster who never should have taunted him like that. Shouldn't have made him think of someone who clearly repulsed him while they were having...while he and Marx were...

Geralt swallowed thickly. His eyes felt hot.

Fuck. Jaskier would rather touch fucking _Valdo Marx_ than touch him.

Behind the beaded curtain, Jaskier let out a choked-off sob, followed by a shuddering gasp.

 _He thinks you're an attendant_ , Geralt told himself. _So attend to him_.

He had to be sure he could keep his identity hidden, though. The bard would be mortified if he knew Geralt had overheard even a fraction of their exchange, let alone seen what he'd seen.

Geralt knew, even with his hair and face hidden and his entire body shrouded, there were still ways Jaskier could tell it was him. His voice, for one. His scent, for another.

Perhaps he wouldn't have to speak. If he could just be sure Jaskier wouldn't recognize his... ah.

A real attendant twirled by with a tray stacked with small flasks of aphrodisiac perfumes. He quickly swiped one up and used the attached atomizer to drench himself in a new scent. The aroma of warm cinnamon and vanilla instantly masked his usual stench of leather, horse, and sword oil.

There. That should do it.

With a deep breath, he turned back to the curtain.

There was still part of him that wanted to run. And part of him that wanted to cry. A part of him that wanted to find someplace secluded where he could be alone with his pain, his rejection.

But there was an even bigger part of him that wanted to take care of his friend.

Steeling himself, he strode through the beaded curtain as though he belonged there.

Jaskier instantly startled, sitting up and wiping his eyes. He didn't bother covering himself. "Oh, I..."

Geralt stared at him openly behind his mask--the visage was a thick, heavy thing, and he was sure Jaskier wouldn't be able to see his golden cat-eyes unless the two of them were nose to nose.

Jaskier appeared to have a small cut on his wrist--likely the source of the blood-scent.

After reassuring himself the bard had no other physical injuries, Geralt went to the towel stack and wetted one in the small basin of provided water. Carefully, moving as he would around a skittish horse, he knelt down next to Jaskier and offered the towel.

"Oh, thank you. Of course, I should..." Jaskier stretched out a shaking hand, but fell short of grasping the cloth. His lip trembled, and he glanced down to where the come was drying on his belly. The tears started anew, and he dropped his head into his hands. "I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm like this, I..." He looked up again abruptly, "I know what I must look like, but it's nothing to worry about, it was all consensual. Please don't tell the host, I'd hate to ruin her party."

Geralt simply nodded, too afraid to speak, unsure he could mask his voice effectively.

"Here, I'll--" Jaskier snatched the cloth out of Geralt's hand and haphazardly wiped it across his abdomen. But his flurry of movement ended just as quickly as it had begun, and he stopped cleaning himself only to twist up his face and bite back another sob. "It's just that I... I should never have come here. If I weren't so...so _stupidly_ in love..."

Geralt's breath caught, but otherwise, he didn't react.

Not on the outside, anyway.

He held himself stiffly, as though those words weren't a dagger to his heart--as though everything inside him hadn't instantly shriveled and died.

As though his whole world hadn't been turned upside-down. 

Jaskier...was _in love_...with _that_ terrible stain of a man?


	8. Geralt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two of them are *really* gonna put a strain on that shared braincell before this is over.

How could Jaskier be in love with someone who was so cruel to him? Someone he constantly professed to _hate_?

But that was it, wasn't it? Jaskier was a trained performer, a good actor. All these years, he must have been covering up how much he loved Marx with this purported professional rivalry--likely in order to hide the real source of his pain: that the man he loved was vicious, hateful, and indifferent to Jaskier's affections.

To have Jaskier's love, but be so sadistic as to take pleasure in using it against him...

Geralt's fingers twitched toward his dagger once more. But instead of stalking off to murder his romantic rival, he held out his hands in an offer of aid. When Geralt was hurt, or exhausted, the bard helped him bathe. That was the sort of affection they shared, the sort of touch and tenderness they gave to one another. Geralt could give the same here, without it seeming unusual.

Jaskier appeared to understand Geralt's silent gesture. Wiping at the brim of his mask with the back of one hand--catching stray tears--he nodded and passed Geralt the towel.

But Jaskier was still sitting awkwardly, half curled, knees pulled up. Geralt couldn't properly wipe him down in this position.

"Lie back," Geralt ventured, making his voice breathy, pulling as much of his natural gravel-filled rumble out of it as he could.

Jaskier hesitated, licking his lips, clearly searching Geralt's blank mask for something, though Geralt knew not what.

After another moment, the bard leaned back, stretching out slowly. Sensually. He bowed his spine and curled one arm above his head before letting his other hand come to rest near his face--the backs of his fingers just brushing his cheek and the corner of his lips. His eyes were hooded, his gaze dark.

Gods he looked... _inviting_.

Geralt shook himself. Surely Jaskier hadn't meant the pose to look so sensual--after all, he was _upset_. It was just that, to Geralt, _everything_ Jaskier did seemed sensual.

The witcher leaned forward with the damp towel, but Jaskier's knees were still bent--still in the way--with the knickers still twisted just above the crook of them. Geralt put a careful hand on one bare knee cap, caressing it before he caught himself.

Jaskier made no indication he minded. 

"These..." Geralt whispered, fingertips straying up to trace the edge of a black ruffle. He wasn't even really sure what he was about to say, but bit it back, lest he speak too much and Jaskier recognize his voice. 

"They can come off," Jaskier said, wet eyelashes fluttering behind his mask, glistening in the low candlelight. He made no move to shuck the panties off himself.

Geralt's heart jumped, skipped a beat. Did Jaskier want him to--?

"Should I?" he whispered, pinching the edge of the tulle delicately as he let the towel drop to the pillows beside Jaskier's hip. 

"Yes," the bard whispered.

Moving to frame Jaskier's knees with his hands, Geralt had to keep himself from _tearing_ the knickers away. It took tremendous effort to move slowly, deliberately. With care. His hands tremored, and his breath rattled in his chest as he let both palms settle against Jaskier, threading his fingertips through the leg bands and up under the hemline.

Gradually, he drew them over Jaskier's knees, down his calves, watching the way the tulle glided over the strong curves of his legs, appreciating the contrast between the stark blackness of the fabric and the milky-soft hue of Jaskier's skin. When he reached his ankles, Jaskier pointed a toe and let Geralt slip the delicate garment off his foot like it was a wedding garter.

Then Jaskier straightened his legs, rubbing one down the length of the other, tilting his hips _just so_ , which sent his cock--now soft, but still mouth-watering--flopping into the V of his pelvis.

Geralt swallowed thickly, mouth gone dry. He found himself dazed, head empty as he stared at Jaskier stretched out before him, all creamy skin and dark hair and toned muscles and--

He jerked back, realizing his hand was halfway to reaching between Jaskier's thighs--to sinking into the seam of them. Gods, just to feel them squeeze around his hand--firm, strong.

This felt like a dream. Surreal, fleeting, illusory. And torturous. He stared at the knickers still in his grasp, unsure of what to do with them.

A nearly irresistible urge to bring them to his nose bubbled up inside him, and he gritted his teeth, shoving it down with a vengeance. He wadded the fabric up in his fist, unable to throw it aside as he should.

Geralt's cock was uncomfortably hard in his breeches. Throbbing, straining. Straining for _Jaskier_. Geralt wanted nothing more than to stretch out on top of his bard right now. To line them up, lips to chests to cocks to knees.

Gods, to hear him sigh and moan again. To wrench those delicious sounds from Jaskier, just like Marx had.

No--no, Geralt would do _better_ than Marx, because he would pleasure Jaskier without the pain. Without the torment.

He _could_ , if only...

 _He doesn't want you,_ he barked at himself. _He'd take_ anyone _over you_.

 _He prefers the terrible, cruel touch of Valdo Marx to anything_ pitifully sweet _you might do to him_.

 _He loves that bastard and can't stand the_ idea _of you_.

Jaw clenching, Geralt shoved the panties into his trouser pocket and swiped up the towel.

The come on Jaskier's stomach had started to crust. Geralt leaned further over Jaskier, holding his breath as he drew the wet cloth over his abs, petting as much as he was washing, unable to help himself. He kept his touch soft, earnest. Judiciously, he scrubbed all evidence of Marx away.

And, to Geralt's mortification, Jaskier's cock slowly fattened between his legs.

The scent of arousal wafted off Jaskier anew, and he pressed up into Geralt's caress even as Geralt pulled back, afraid.

The bard didn't let him get far. He grabbed Geralt's wrist, held him in place--encouraged him to fan his palm out over the towel, against his stomach. "You have firm hands," he whispered. "But a gentle touch."

Geralt had gone still, pressing his palm solidly against Jaskier's abdomen, but not daring to speak. He could feel Jaskier's pulse beneath his hand, could _hear_ it--pounding away, fluttering with a mixture of nervousness and need.

"You watched us," Jaskier whispered.

Geralt tensed further. It didn't sound like an accusation, but...

"Did you like it?" Jaskier asked slowly, with a quaver of desperation in his voice--the kind that always meant he was seeking approval, validation. "Did you like _us_?" He pushed at Geralt's hand, encouraging it _down_ , past his abs, to his pelvis.

Lower.

"Do you like...me?"

Geralt swallowed so harshly, he was sure Jaskier could hear.

He let Jaskier continue to force his hand, dragging the towel with him--the illusion of a buffer the only thing keeping the guilt at bay, the only thing keeping him from berating himself. The only thing allowing him to ignore the small voice insisting, _you shouldn't be touching him like this_.

It was the only thing keeping him from snatching his hand away and darting from the alcove.

Jaskier tipped his head back, arched his spine-- _spread his legs_ \--and guided Geralt's hand straight to his flushed, full, gods-damned fucking _cock_.

"Would you like to fuck me?" Jaskied breathed. 

All feeling left Geralt's body.

His mind went _blank_.

"I want you to," Jaskier moaned. "Fuck me. _Please_."


	9. Jaskier

There was a certain sick freedom in being allowed to say Geralt's name with someone else's dick inside him--in letting it out, in _giving in_.

Each time Geralt's name fell from Jaskier's lips, he saw the witcher in his mind's eye--above him, rocking into him. There was no stopping his imagination from conjuring the scene. He'd observed Geralt from nearly every possible angle, and it was so easy to piece together the sights and sounds and scents of Geralt having sex--piece them together into something that almost felt _real_.

If he were with Jaskier, now, instead of Valdo, the witcher's strong jaw would clench, and his eyes would be dark, pupils wide as he watched Jaskier beneath him. His expression wouldn't be filled with cruel mirth--as Valdo's was--it would be...awestruck. And hungry. Yes, Jaskier could easily place the exact expression he wanted on his imaginary Geralt's face. It would be full of love and adoration and companionship, and--

"Say his name when you come," Valdo demanded.

"Geralt," Jaskier whispered, wanting to blot out Valdo's voice. Now that he'd let himself fall, now that he'd relented to his own urges, he wanted to hold on to the fantasy.

No matter how badly it hurt.

Because, even with the vividness of his imagination, there was still a small voice in the back of his mind, reminding him: _Geralt would never touch you this way. He would never look at you this way. He would never lie with you this way._

Valdo was still talking--telling him to come. He was still pounding into him, firm and focused. It should have been enough. Enough to make Jaskier reach his peak. But he still felt like he was missing something.

He longed to look into a steady gaze and see his own feelings reflected. He longed to have Geralt's strong hands fall over his heart, just to feel it beat. He longed to feel lips against his, but he knew kissing Valdo would be all wrong.

 _That_ was what he wanted--not just the bone-deep pleasure of a fuck, but the soul-deep pleasure of real affection. He needed tenderness behind the roughness. A sincerity of connection.

A sincerity Valdo could never give him, even if Jaskier were open to accepting it.

Jaskier tossed his head back, bared his throat. Imagined Geralt bending over him, mouthing at his neck. Imagined Geralt whispering sweet things in his ear: _"You're beautiful, Jaskier." "I've always wanted you, Jaskier." "Let me make you feel good, Jaskier."_

Wonderful, impossible words.

The exquisite shock of his orgasm hit him just as Imaginary Geralt nuzzled his jaw and sighed a soft, breathy, _"I love you, Jaskier."_

"G- _Geralt_ ," he sobbed, biting back his own _I love you_. He would never let Valdo hear those words fall from his lips. Never.

The splatter of his own come against his stomach was somehow a surprise, and the pleasure of his orgasm was frustratingly fleeting. It burned through him in a flash--whiting out his nerve endings with ecstasy, only to leave them raw and aching a moment later.

Jaskier had barely snapped back into himself--still chasing his fantasy, still trying to hold onto it--when Valdo suddenly pulled out and scrambled over him, strangling his own shaft until he was coming as well, adding to the sloppy pool on Jaskier's abdomen.

They both sat panting for a long moment--Valdo smug behind his mask, with Jaskier clinging to the illusion of Geralt's warmth and affection.

And then the image of Geralt was gone--blown away like so much smoke--leaving Jaskier with nothing but the cold reality of Geralt's absence, and the tackiness of Valdo's spend drying on his belly.

He'd come here to forget. And now he _couldn't_ forget. Now he felt more at a loss than he had before Valdo had found him.

Valdo was talking again, but he sounded distant, like he was underwater--or _Jaskier_ was underwater--and then he was bending over, giving Jaskier a perfunctory kiss on the cheek before patting him condescendingly. 

Then he was standing, moving away--and _still_ talking--but Jaskier... Jaskier felt like he was _drowning_.

The loss of a grounding touch, a firm body--even his rival's--was enough to send him plummeting.

The vibrance and depth of his imagination just made reality that much more harsh and awful. At the height of his fantasy, Jaskier had felt loved and alive, but now that the truth had reared its inevitable head once more, he felt like Geralt had been _torn_ from him.

A distant sound of tinkling beads told him Valdo had left.

Just like that, gone.

Jaskier was alone.

He turned away from the alcove entrance, curling in on himself.

Why had he let Valdo push him?

Jaskier knew himself-- _knew_ this would happen. He knew exactly what it would do to him if he let himself dream of Geralt in all the ways he couldn't have him.

It was freeing in the moment, and it was hollow after. It combined intense pleasure with intense pain in a way that Jaskier couldn't handle on his own.

And now he was alone and empty and he didn't know what to do with himself.

A large sob bubbled up in his chest--the kind that would turn into a terrible wail when it left his throat if he didn't tamp down on it this instant. Shuddering, he threw his hand over his mouth.

Tears prickled in the corners of his eyes.

Why had he done this? Why had he come here? He'd never be able to reach that blissful state of exhaustion now--his dreams were bound to be full of Geralt, and he'd have to face the next morning with grief in his heart for a relationship that would never be.

The beads tinkled again, and he startled, sitting up. One of the attendants had entered the alcove.

"Oh, I--"

He was instantly embarrassed. Not by his nakedness, but by his sadness. This was a party. A party was for smiles. Especially when nothing untoward had happened.

The attendant prepared a washcloth for him, and as he offered it to the bard, Jaskier attempted to compose himself. He reached for the cloth, but it made the tacky mess on his belly pull uncomfortably at his skin, and he glanced down at his stomach.

A fresh wave of shame washed over him.

He started blathering an apology.

He hardly knew what he was saying.

The man seemed to take it in stride. Perhaps he'd seen many different post-coital reactions in his time working for the hostess. Or perhaps he was just the stoic type. Either way, Jaskier was grateful to have someone simply listen.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jaskier realized this had to be the same man who'd watched them. The one who'd seemed so shocked to see them fucking.

Eventually, Jaskier worked himself up to snatching the towel from the stranger's hand, managing to make one swipe with it across his abs before all his feelings started pouring out of him anew.

"It's just that I... I should never have come here," he admitted. "If I weren't so...so _stupidly_ in love..."

Stupid, _stupidly_ in love.

Jaskier's vision blurred, and his fingers started to shake. The attendant took pity on him, holding out his hands in a clear offer of help.

Wiping at the brim of his mask, trying to hide his tears--which was silly, he couldn't hide how upset he was--Jaskier nodded and passed the cloth back.

At least he wasn't alone anymore. At least there was someone here, looking after him. Even if was just the attendant's job. Even if there was no real connection.

It was cruel of Destiny to send him someone built so much like Geralt, though. Jaskier had been projecting his witcher onto practically every man he'd seen tonight, but he could tell that this man--now that he had him in the same room--was truly Geralt's spitting image. Proportionally-speaking, at least.

"Lie back," the man said, swallowing thickly. His voice was breathy. Tight. As though something were constricting his throat and keeping his natural timbre at bay.

Jaskier narrowed his eyes, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

Why _had_ this man gazed at him and Valdo so intently? Why had he seemed so taken aback by their coupling?

Jaskier could only think of one reason for a strange man to stare so heatedly at two people having sex: because he liked it.

He searched the man's inscrutable mask, looking for any confirmation that his suspicions were correct. But there was no way for him to be sure. Not without a test.

He lay back as indicated, keeping his knees up, mindful of the way his spine arched and his hips twisted and where his arms came to rest.

If the man liked him, maybe the bard wouldn't have to face his loneliness for some time yet. He imagined the stranger's big body on top of his. The weight of it, the warmth of it.

The attendant bent over him, and Jaskier got a heady lungful of the man's perfume. Spicy and sweet-- cinnamon and vanilla. Familiar in its ingredients, yet unfamiliar on a man's skin.

One white glove came up to trace over the ruffled edge of his panties--still twisted, as they were, around his knees. "These?" the man asked softly.

"They can come off," Jaskier said slowly.

"Should I?" Even in a tight whisper, the man's voice was deep, and it sent a zing of pleasure though Jaskier.

That's when the bard realized he was lost.

He'd already crossed the line. There was no going back. No erasing Geralt from his thoughts, or pushing his desire for the witcher aside.

This man couldn't simply be a comforting presence.

He would be Geralt.

If Jaskier let him stay, he would be--unequivocally-- _Geralt_ in his mind.

Jaskier imagined he could see the glint of golden eyes behind the golden visage of the mask, and a strand of white hair poking out from beneath the hood.

" _Yes_ ," he said eagerly.

 _Yes...Geralt_.

Jaskier swallowed harshly as the man moved into position--as he tugged at the tulle carefully, treating both the fabric and Jaskier like they were precious. Fragile.

Heartache and pleasure swirled in Jaskier's chest while the attendant pulled the knickers over his calves with aching slowness. There was an undeniable reverence in the way the man touched him, like he wasn't sure he was _allowed to_ , not really.

It was so easy to imagine Geralt touching him exactly like that.

 _It_ is _Geralt_ , he insisted to himself. _This is Geralt. Pretend he's finally come to you_.

It hurt--oh _gods_ , it hurt to pretend. But he couldn't help it. He wanted it too much, and Valdo had already fucked him up-- _fucked him over_.

 _Touch me, Geralt. Undress me. Do what you want with me_.

He pointed his toe as the garment reached his ankle, and the man petted down the top of his foot as he freed him of the fabric.

Sensuously, Jaskier lowed his legs, fully exposing his come-covered torso and letting the man get an unencumbered look at his cock for the first time.

For a few moments, the attendant froze in place. He simply _looked_ at Jaskier, mind seemingly gone blank.

Then his hand started to move toward Jaskier--toward his legs. The bard closed his eyes, anticipating the touch.

But the man's fingers never fell.

After another moment, the wet towel flopped against his stomach, and the attendant began diligently scrubbing away the evidence of his coupling with Valdo.

The man's hands were like heaven, his cleaning more like petting, and Jaskier's cock slowly began to fill again under his ministrations.

The attendant clearly took notice--there was a change in his touch, a combination of eagerness and fear that made his strokes firmer and faster.

Jaskier was sure he was reading the man correctly, but when he pressed up into his caress, the attendant gasped and pulled back.

Instinctually, Jaskier grabbed his wrist, held him in place. The man was clearly strong--he could shake him off if he wanted to, but he stayed put.

Jaskier considered the possibility that the man wasn't sure _Jaskier_ \--a guest--would be receptive to intimacies with a member of the household staff. Even if he wanted Jaskier, perhaps he was holding himself back for propriety's sake. Perhaps that was why his touches were so tentative.

If that were so, it was time to disabuse him of the notion. "You have firm hands," Jaskier whispered. "But a gentle touch."

He nudged at the man's hand, pushing it lower on his belly.

The man let him.

"You watched us," Jaskier said. "Did you like it?" he asked hopefully.

Slowly, he guided the attendant further down, keeping the man's palm pressed firmly to his torso, with nothing but a thin glove and a towel between them.

"Did you like _us_?"

He encouraged the man's fingers below his bellybutton.

Then to his pelvis.

Into his pubic hair.

And then--

Lower still.

Jaskier's lungs hitched, and he wetted his lips. "Do you like...me?"

The man gulped harshly.

Jaskier held his breath, waiting for a reply.

The attendant said nothing, perhaps afraid to answer. Afraid he'd misunderstood the intent behind the question.

Fine, then Jaskier would make his intentions _perfectly clear_.

The bard tipped his head back, arched his spine, _spread his legs_ _,_ and placed the attendant's hand on top of his hot, fully-hard cock.

"Would you like to fuck me?" Jaskied asked earnestly. "I want you to," he insisted. "Fuck me. _Please_."

For a painful moment, the man didn’t respond.

Now Jaskier was afraid _he'd_ misunderstood--that perhaps instead of enticing the attendant to stay, he'd just scared him off.

But then man's fingers tightened over his dick, squeezing firmly.

Jaskier thrust up into his grasp.

 _That's it, Geralt. Gods, yes_.

The attendant groaned. It was a long, a pained, _desirous_ sound, as though the sudden pleasure of it all had _hurt_ , made him ache.

In a flash, Jaskier whisked the towel away, tossing it over his head to land somewhere among the pillows. Now there was just the delicate, slightly-damp fabric of the attendant's white glove between them. He rolled his hips against the man's hand, and those fingers clutched him for dear life--nearly on the verge of too tight, just firm enough to make it feel desperate.

" _Ngh_ ," he moaned, thrusting up, again and again. "Oh, _gods_. Fuck me."

With one final squeeze, the man yanked his hand away--fingers shaking, like he'd received a shock. "I..." He sat back on his haunches in a painful mimicry of the way Geralt sat when he meditated. "I don't..."

"You can," Jaskier insisted, pushing himself up on his elbows, frustrated to have his moment of bliss torn from him. 

The man balled his fists against his thighs and looked away, clearly conflicted.

Jaskier wanted to make this easy for him, and if that meant he had to take the lead, so be it. Sitting up, he quickly pulled himself into the man's lap, straddling his thick thighs.

Instead of pushing him away, the attendant slid his hands around Jaskier's back, fingers splayed wide, pressing tightly--holding him as though loath to let go.

He was trembling, Jaskier realized. The man was _shivering_ \--all over--like he was vibrating with the effort of holding himself back.

"It's okay," Jaskier whispered, leaning in close, nose nearly brushing against the golden mask's, his breath ghosting over carved lips instead of real ones.

He wanted to pull the mask away, to kiss this man, but as his fingers rose to whip the thing off, he stopped short.

No.

The mask should stay on.

It was easier like this.

As soon as he saw that it _wasn't_ Geralt, he was likely to spiral again.

It was better this way.

Quickly, he dropped his hands into the man's lap, seeking out the ties on his trousers instead.

The man grabbed one of his wrists. "Wait," he breathed. "Just...wait."

Jaskier waited.

The man's eyes, shaded behind his mask, raked over Jaskier--every inch that they could see. Once again, Jaskier imagined they were gold--he almost could have sworn they _were_.

"Don't you want me?" he asked, slightly petulantly.

The man's eyes fluttered closed. He looked like he was savoring something. The moment? The question?

Carefully, the man moved his hand from Jaskier's wrist to Jaskier's chest, carding through the hair there.

He hadn't stopped trembling. Jaskier wanted to quell whatever it was that was making him hesitate--his fear, his anxiety, his doubt.

Clearly, they were _both_ in need of comfort. All the attendant had to do was let Jaskier give it to them.

"Please," Jaskier whispered. " _Please_. Be with me. Lie with me."

 _Geralt. Geralt, please_.

 _Don't reject me_.

The man swallowed heavily. He gritted his teeth, shook his head. "I can't," he said, voice wavering, thick with hemmed-in emotion. "I can't. I'm sorry. I _can't_."


	10. Geralt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst. Moar angst.

Naked.

Jaskier was naked...and _hard_...and in his _lap_...and _begging_ Geralt to _fuck him_.

Geralt had had his hand on Jaskier's _cock_. He'd touched him-- _stroked_ him. Felt him hot and heavy in his palm. Jaskier had rutted up against him--had chased his pleasure in Geralt's grasp.

His bard _wanted_ it--gods, Geralt could smell just how much he wanted it. Wanted to be pinned down and fucked into the pillows. Wanted to be filled up. Wanted to feel good.

 _I could make you feel so good_ , Geralt silently said to him, one hand clutching Jaskier's wrist, the other splayed firmly against his back. _We would both feel so good, tangled up in each other_.

"Don't you want me?" Jaskier whined, pouting slightly.

Geralt closed his eyes for a brief moment, took a steadying breath. His muscles coiled, his jaw clenched. It took everything in his power not to tip Jaskier back onto the cushions--not to crawl on top of him that instant.

 _Fuck_. To be offered the very thing he craved only minutes after learning Jaskier would never want to be with him was surely Destiny's sickest joke.

And still...

He _could_ do it.

Maybe even get away with it.

If Jaskier was this close and couldn't tell it was him, then there was a chance Geralt could bury himself to the hilt inside Jaskier and the bard would never know. He could fuck into him, finally have him. Maybe he wouldn't be able to taste him, kiss him, or touch him with his bare hands, but he would at least get to feel him tight around his cock--get to feel him writhe, and hear him whimper, and scent his pleasure, and--

Geralt shivered.

His cock _throbbed_.

After, they could go on just as they were--friends, companions--and Geralt would at least have the memory of Jaskier's passion to keep him warm at night.

All he had to do was accept the offer.

His hold on Jaskier's wrist temporarily tightened. He nearly pressed Jaskier's hand down firmly onto his crotch--nearly lost control of himself. In a flash, he released his wrist and raised his hand to the bard's chest instead, tangling his fingers in the hair there--grounding himself in it.

"Please," Jaskier whispered. He sounded so... _desperate_. " _Please_. Be with me. Lay with me."

Jaskier was here, and he was more than willing. He was practically throwing himself at Geralt, and yet...

He didn't know what he was asking.

He wasn't throwing himself _at Geralt_ , he was throwing himself at a stranger.

A stranger might be able help take away his pain--to help erase the melancholy Marx had wrenched to the surface.

Geralt, on the other hand, could only offer _new_ pain.

Even if Jaskier never found out, Geralt cared for him too much to betray him this way. Jaskier didn't want him, and to take him without his knowledge would be vile. Geralt wouldn't let himself become the kind of person who did monstrous things simply because he was sure he could keep them secret.

"I can't," Geralt said, voice wavering. He hoped his sincerity was palpable. "I can't. I'm sorry. I _can't_."

Jaskier made a frustrated sort of huff, then leaned back, looking up at the ceiling as though trying to entreat a god for strength. "I'm not above begging," he said, throwing both arms around Geralt's neck, sticking out his chest and curving his spine so that his nipples were at the perfect height for sucking. "Please? I'm _such_ a good fuck. I've made ladies wail with a flick of my tongue, and gentlemen weep with a slide of my finger, and fair folk of all kind cry out in utter ecstasy with-- _ah_."

Jaskier hissed as Geralt curled his fingers in his chest hair and _pulled_.

"You talk too much," Geralt said. Two types of heat--brought on by jealousy and arousal--colored his words. He didn't want to hear about Jaskier's other exploits. He didn't want to hear about all the other people he'd pleased.

"The point _is_ ," Jaskier said, "I'll be _so_ good to you, if you let me. I promise."

He moved to undo Geralt's fly once more, and Geralt snatched both of his hands away, holding Jaskier's wrists up by his head in a manacle-like grip. "You don't even know who I am," Geralt half-growled.

"Isn't that supposed to be part of the fun of a masked sex party?" Jaskier asked, raising an eyebrow behind his eyelets. He didn't struggle, didn't try to throw Geralt off.

"But what if...what if I know who _you_ are?"

Jaskier's expression darkened. He blinked. "What?"

"I know you," Geralt admitted, voice breathy, the words leaving him harshly, like they'd been punched out of him.

 _I know you so well_.

_I know you like to linger in bed in the mornings, and that you savor the nights you're able to stay up as late as you want, writing. I know you like the smell of campfire smoke on old leather, and detest the scent of juniper. I know you prefer honey to jam, and Fiorano to Est Est. I know you like the finer things in life, but for some reason spend your days traipsing around with an old witcher in the wilds._

_I_ thought _I knew who you hated. I thought I understood how you love_.

" _Oh_ ," Jaksier said suddenly, as though he'd just realized something--absolutely oblivious to Geralt's inner revere. "Oh, I see. Because of..." He cleared his throat, then hastily sang the opening bars to _Toss a Coin_ , bobbing his head back and forth flippantly, like he was just waiting for the notes to get themselves out. "That's alright," he said when the verse ended. "I don't mind sleeping with a fan."

"I'm not a _fan_ ," Geralt retorted, perhaps a bit too harshly.

Jaskier shrugged--wrists still bound in Geralt's grasp--as though it made no difference to him. "I don't mind sleeping with a tasteless critic either."

"That's not--" Geralt cut himself off, let out a frustrated sigh. "I can't be what you want me to be."

Jaskier hooded his eyes, leaning forward with an enticing smirk on his lips. With a pleased hum, he brushed his cheek against the side of Geralt's mask. "What do you think I want you to be?" he asked, voice silky.

Geralt swallowed harshly, mouth gone dry. "A replacement. For _him_."

 _The man you love is cruel, and you need a stranger to give you the warmth and comfort Marx won't_.

Jaskier snapped erect, spine stiffening.

The salty tang of sadness burgeoned in the air around them, and Geralt wished he'd kept his mouth shut.

"So what if I do?" Jaskier asked, clearly trying to hold his head high. His lip trembled slightly, and he caught it between his teeth to hold it still.

Beneath his mask, Geralt bit his lip in turn, and tried not to let his own hurt spread through his chest, tried not to let it color his tone. "I _can't_ be that for you," he said, reasserting his grip on Jaskier's wrists, shaking them slightly for emphasis. "If you knew who I was, you'd understand why." _You wouldn't ask this of me. You wouldn't want me to_.

That gave Jaskier true pause. He narrowed his gaze, tilted his head slightly. "Do you mean we...?" He trailed off, then rolled his tongue in his mouth before asking through pursed lips, "Do we--do we _know_ each other? I mean, _truly_?"

"Yes," Geralt blurted, "And you'd _hate me_. You'd hate me if you ever found out I was here."

Jaskier's entire body went stiff--rigid as a statue--in Geralt's lap.

Only his eyes moved--searching, seeking.

Then something inside Jaskier shifted. His demeanor changed in an instant.

Suddenly, he _lunged,_ hands darting out for the edges of Geralt's mask, fingers curled like talons.

He didn't get far. Geralt's arms held firm--kept Jaskier's wrists trapped, kept him at bay. Still, the witcher leaned back, away from Jaskier's twitching fingers. "Please," he begged, " _Don't_. I don't want you to know. I don't want you to see me."

"You _don't_ know me," Jaskier asserted, expression gone dark, bitter with an edge of panic. He lunged forward again, and Geralt wrestled his arms _back_. "You _don't_ ," Jaskier insisted. "Because... Because there's only one person who... _You don't know me!"_

Geralt felt his whole world start to slip sideways.

Slip _away_.

He'd said too much. His disguise had worked so well, but then those three words had gone flying out of his mouth: _you'd hate me_.

They both knew who Jaskier would detest having between his legs. They both knew who he'd never, _ever_ proposition. Whose lap he'd never crawl into, naked and needy.

"It can't be," Jaskier whispered, voice trembling. He stopped struggling. "You can't be him."

Geralt thought Jaskier would bolt then. Thought he would push away in disgust, would fight to leave.

Maybe he'd shout, curse.

Geralt would take it, just accept it.

He knew he deserved it.

Instead, Jaskier sagged, curling forward to set his forehead against Geralt's chest. He brought his hands in to cover his mouth, and Geralt let him, releasing his wrists to lay comforting palms against his back.

For a long moment, Jaskier simply quaked in his arms, breath hitching.

"It can't be you," the bard insisted after a time, face still buried. He said it like a wish, like a prayer. "Because, if it's you...I've ruined _everything_."

One of Jaskier's hands pressed flat against Geralt's chest. The witcher didn't realize why until it was too late.

Jaskier shuddered violently, let out half a sob. "Your heart... It's so... _slow,_ " he said, voice strained with regret. "It _is_ you." He sat up sharply. "Fuck, what have I--?"

Their gazes caught, and Geralt saw the recognition in his eyes.

Jaskier _did_ know.

They both knew.

"Jaskier--"

The bard _did_ push him away, then. He scrambled back, fleeing like a small prey animal only just realizing it was trapped with a predator. He fell on his arse, but kept retreating, crawling backwards, putting as much distance between himself and Geralt as quickly as he could, finesse be damned.

When his shoulders hit the far wall of the small alcove, he pressed himself firmly against it before clawing his mask away, throwing it angrily at his own feet. His chest rose and fell with sharp, panicked breaths, and his face was flushed, eyes wide. "Take it off!" he demanded.

Geralt didn't move.

"Take the fucking mask off, now!"

The ruse was already over. There was no hiding from Jaskier. And yet, the mask felt like Geralt's last layer of protection. Like everything could still be fixed if he simply refused to show his face.

But it couldn't.

He wasn't sure _anything_ could fix this.

Resigned, Geralt ducked his head and undid the ties beneath his hood. Slowly, he pulled the mask forward and set it face-down in his lap before looking up again. Before facing Jaskier.

As soon as their eyes met, Jaskier's tears started to fall in earnest.


	11. Jaskier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They've still got a few bumps left in their road, babes.

"What do you think I want you to be?" Jaskier asked slyly.

"A replacement. For _him_."

Oh, right. He'd heard. This man had heard Valdo's taunting. He'd heard Jaskier cry out the name of the lover he _wanted_ , rather than the lover he had.

Well, Jaskier certainly didn't need this attendant's judgment, or pity, or whatever sorry sort of sentiment he was trying to convey. Jaskier knew the difference between what he wanted and what he could get. He knew to seek out the latter whenever he could, and be content with the meager scraps of affection the man he pined for doled out.

Okay, perhaps _content_ wasn't the right word. After all, those _were_ the moments in which he started questioning everything: _Why did Geralt do this, why did Geralt do that?_ His own yearning for a more intimate relationship with Geralt often distracted him from the well-worn kinship right in front of him. It made their companionship into something that hurt and perplexed Jaskier, rather than something that soothed and contented him.

Yes, sure, it was high time Jaskier truly acknowledged that _every_ man he slept with, not just at this party, but at _all_ the parties--and pleasure palaces, and puny inns--was a replacement for Geralt.

But, so what?

First, the man in the winged mask had judged him for taking his pleasure with someone else, and now this attendant as well?

What was Jaskier supposed to do? Sit around-- _celibate_ \--waiting for a man who didn’t want him? Waiting for the witcher to...what? Continue to sit there stoically--on the other side of one of their many campfires--barely acknowledging the type of affection that _did_ exist between them?

What, exactly, was _that_ supposed to accomplish?

So what if this stranger was simply a perfect replacement for someone he loved? Should that really offend the attendant so?

Jaskier didn't need this man's pity.

He needed his fucking _dick_.

Or his cunt, or his mouth--or whatever parts of his body and types of intimacy he'd like to offer Jaskier.

The bard sat up, spine straightening defiantly. "So what if I do?"

"I _can't_ be that for you," the attendant insisted, gripping Jaskier's wrists all the tighter and shaking them.

Jaskier drew in a deep breath, a protest poised on his tongue, but before he could say, _"Look, kind sir, I am offering you a magnificent sexual encounter that is guaranteed to make the gods themselves flush with wanting_ ," the stranger continued:

"If you knew who I was, you'd understand why."

Jaskier blinked. That gave him true pause. He narrowed his gaze, tilting his head slightly. "Do you mean we...?"

 _No_ , he thought flippantly. No, this man couldn't mean what it sounded like he meant.

Still, something akin to both anger and fright gripped his spine and pinched his features, drawing his eyebrows together and pursing his lips. "Do we-- Do we _know_ each other? I mean, truly?"

"Yes," the man said firmly.

That was absurd.

Positively untenable.

Because Jaskier only knew one man with this particular cut to his shoulders, and this particular thickness to his thighs, and this specific breathy gravel to his whispers, and...

No.

Nope.

Impossible.

Daft.

A bubble of panic burgeoned in Jaskier's chest. He tried to burst it, to deflate it--to shrink it with the obvious: _This isn't_ him _. You know it's not_. But the more he tried to shove the notion away, the more his panic grew, until the only thing preventing it from bursting out of him was the sheer force of his desire to preserve this reality. This reality, where all of the clues couldn't possibly point to the most devastating case of mistaken identity anyone had ever been embroiled in, ever.

"And you'd _hate me_ ," the attendant insisted, anguished. "You'd hate me if you ever found out I was here."

Jaskier went very still.

His lungs stopped working.

Who would he hate for not revealing themself? Who would Jaskier be angry with for letting him crawl into their lap without protest, without admitting who they were first and foremost? For listening in while he had sex with Valdo? For not leaving as soon as they heard Jaskier say--? 

Say--?

For all Jaskier had been babbling his witcher's name all night, now he couldn't even bring up the syllables in his mind.

His own thoughts were trying to protect him, to keep his world from shattering. Because if he thought that name now-- If that _name_ and this _man_ merged into one in the same, in _truth_ \--

 _No_.

Jaskier's body moved without his consent, lunging at the attendant, hands curled and fingers rigid, ready to _tear_ and _claw_ and _scrape_ that golden mask away to reveal the truth underneath. Ready to prove that this terrible turn in the conversation wasn't real. That what this man seemed to be confessing absolutely wasn't fact.

Strong hands kept him at bay.

"Please," an all-too familiar voice begged. Now that Jaskier had picked out the lilt, the gruff undertones, he couldn't force himself to unhear them. " _Don't_ ," the man pleaded. "I don't want you to know. I don't want you to see me."

No.

This was all wrong.

 _No. No no no no no no no_.

 _I'm dreaming. This is a nightmare_. _This is--_

_No._

_No_!

He refused to believe it.

"You _don't_ know me," Jaskier insisted bitterly, voice raising an octave too high, betraying his simmering hysterics. With anger curling his lips and strengthening his limbs, he lunged again, determined to prove that this was some kind of farce. "You _don't_ ," he bit out. "Because... Because there's only one person who... _You don't know me!"_

He kept struggling, even as the attendant held him back with his all-too firm grip. His all-too familiar strength.

Perhaps this was a terrible practical joke--orchestrated by Valdo.

Maybe it wasn't enough for him to make Jaskier hurt himself with...with _that name_.

Valdo knew the witcher. He would have recognized the similarities in this attendant, just at Jaskier had. Maybe he'd employed this stranger to torment his rival further still. Just for the spite of it.

Yes, that had to be it.

Must be.

 _Had. To. Be_.

Because there was no Fate this awful, no Destiny _that_ vicious. They would not send him the one person who could never, _ever_ hear Jaskier cry out _that name_ with desire and ecstasy. The bard had never done anything to defy them, why would they punish him by destroying the one relationship he cherished most?

 _They didn't destroy anything_ , a small voice in the back of his mind whispered _. You've done that yourself_.

"It can't be," he insisted softly, as all the fight went out of him. His lip trembled, as did his tone.

He'd held reality at bay for as long as he could. But even as he'd struggled against it, the veracity of it had seeped into his consciousness, and into his body--through his limbs and into his chest, his heart. Even as his lips continued to deny it, he knew it was true. "You can't be him."

Jaskier sagged forward--the weight of this new certainty too much to bear. Deep within himself, he'd acknowledge it, but he couldn't yet face it.

His forehead met a firm chest, and he pulled at the grip on his wrists and was thankfully released. He covered his eyes, his mouth, holding back tears and hiding from the very man whose lap he occupied.

Warm palms settled against his back.

For a long few moments, Jaskier let his mind haze and his senses dull. He wished to be anywhere else right now, anywhere on the continent.

The cinnamon and vanilla smell was still fresh on the man's clothes, but beneath, there was something else. Something warm and earthy that Jaskier associated with safety and love and home.

Things he'd never be able to associate with that scent again. Not after this.

"It can't be you," He said, and it was a wish, a prayer. If there was any entity in the world that could make all of this un-happen, he would gladly sell himself into their everlasting service. "Because, if it's you...I've ruined _everything_."

He only needed one last confirmation. Before he could confront this, he needed one more of his senses to validate what he already knew to be true.

Carefully, he pressed one palm flat against the attendant's chest.

He hoped for a rabbit-quick flutter. Or perhaps a frequent pounding. For a tempo that was, at the very least...human.

_Thump-thump..._

_..._

_..._

_..._

_Thump-thump..._

_..._

_..._

_..._

_Thump-thump_...

Jaskier grimaced, face contorting with pain and sorrow and anger and guilt. He shuddered violently as he drew a deep breath and let out an anguished sob. "Your heart..." he said, voice strained, full of regret. "It's so... _slow."_

_It's him._

_It's_ Geralt _._

Simply thinking the name finally had Jaskier snapping upright. "It _is_ you! Fuck, what have I--?"

His gaze caught the other man's. Where Jaskier had previously thought he'd imagined the amber glint, now he saw it for real. Recognized it.

Recognized the person staring back at him.

The man he loved.

The man he'd surely lost.

"Jaskier--"

There wasn't anything specifically angry in the way Geralt said his name--if anything, it held the barest hint of plea--but it still had the bard scrambling backwards, hurrying away. Jaskier was more aware of his nakedness than he'd been all night, and _excessively_ aware of who he'd just unabashedly _thrust_ that nakedness onto.

He fell on his bum, but kept going. He continued to retreat until his back hit the wall, and then he still scrambled.

With a frustrated cry, he tore his own mask away, wanting no more pretenses between them.

And he demanded the same of Geralt. "Take it off!"

The witcher didn't move.

"Take the fucking mask off, now!"

Yes, he was angry with Geralt. He was angry with him for letting this entire incident go on for as long as it had. For letting Jaskier continue to humiliate himself far past the point of saving face.

Geralt moved with a painful slowness, all careful and stiff. Jaskier held his breath as the witcher reached beneath his hood to unknot the ties.

Mask on or off, it didn't change anything, not really. Except it would put them on equal footing. They were unmatched in nakedness, but would be equivalently _exposed_.

The mask came away in increments, revealing to Jaskier first Geralt's brow, then his down-cast eyes, thinned lips, and his tight, stubbled jaw. Geralt set the golden visage face-down in his lap, staring into the bowl of it for a maddening number of heart beats.

Then, slowly, he lifted his eyes.

Jaskier wasn't sure what he expected to happen when their gazes locked, or what he expected to see written across Geralt's face. But when they looked at each other--truly saw each other--the bard couldn't hold back the tears that streamed freely down his face.

Without thinking about it, Jaskier instinctually drew his knees up to his chest, creating a protective barrier between himself and the witcher.

Geralt's expression was similarly shuttered. He clearly struggled to maintain their eye contact; his gaze flickered briefly down, then up again, several times, before either of them spoke.

The last hour flashed across Jaskier's inner eye as he rewound the evening's events.

No wonder Geralt had looked so surprised when he first appeared at the alcove's curtain. Not only had he not expected to see his bard, Geralt had no idea Jaskier occasionally indulged in carnalities with Valdo--his nemesis. Jaskier had never confessed to it.

To stumble upon one's best friend fucking his worst enemy must surely have been a shock to the system.

And then, when Jaskier had...had said...

"You heard," Jaskier croaked. It didn't sound like an accusation, though he'd meant it to be. He simply sounded weak, tired.

"I heard," Geralt confirmed.

"You saw."

"I saw."

"You _know_."

"I know."

Jaskier propped his elbows on his raised knees and hid his face behind his hands. Perhaps he'd been too hasty in discarding his mask. " _Then why are you still here_?" he asked with a harsh gasp.

Geralt said nothing for a long moment.

The silence stretched.

"He--" Geralt tried, then swallowed thickly. "Marx, he hurt you. You were upset. I couldn't just... I couldn't just leave you."

Jaskier's heart clenched. He choked on a sob.

For all his gruffness, Geralt was forever kind. Even in the face of Jaskier's forceful desire--a desire the witcher had made _quite clear_ he couldn't return--he'd done his best to take care of his senseless, silly bard. 

Geralt had obviously hoped to sneak away in the end, with everyone's dignity intact. He would have taken Jaskier's secret with him, and keep quiet, to spare his friend's feelings.

But Jaskier hadn't even allowed them both the grace of silence. He'd _pushed_ , and he'd _pushed_ , and he'd _pushed_ , until Geralt had finally reached the end of his rope and snapped, " _I know you_."

There came a rustling of movement, but Jaskier couldn't bring himself to lift his head. Something warm was awkwardly draped dover him, and he reached for the edges to pull it taut around his shoulders.

A cloak. Geralt's hooded cloak.

Jaskier's head snapped up just as Geralt took a large step back. The witcher held his palms up and open to indicate he would touch Jaskier no further.

Now that Geralt was fully revealed, it was amazing to think Jaskier had ever been deceived by the getup in the first place. Clearly he'd been blinded by the fog of his own lust.

They both fell still and quiet.

Jaskier itched to get away.

He wasn’t sure how much longer he could sit here and be pitied by his best friend.

Though his legs were wobbly, Jaskier forced himself to stand. He drew the cloak closer, wrapping it tighter around his body, sniffling lightly. When he was sure his knees would keep him upright, he looked down at his discarded mask and said, "I don't know that I'll ever be able to look you in the eye again."

It was a half-joke, solemn and misplaced--like gallows humor. He tried to make up for it in the next moment. "I've hurt us both, and I'm sorry."

"You feel what you feel," Geralt said diplomatically. "It's not my place to challenge that."

"But still. I never meant to burden you with this. I never wanted you to know. And now..." Jaskier allowed his gaze to dart up to Geralt's. He made himself look at him, made himself be brave. Words piled up on his tongue, and though he tried to trap them behind his teeth, his heart told him they had to be said.

He swallowed thickly before letting them rush forth.

"And now, Geralt, I know it won't change anything, but you _have_ to know I love--"

" _I know_ ," Geralt snapped harshly, holding up a hand and turning away. "I know. You don't have to say it. I know."

Jaskier bit his tongue, strangling the rest of the sentence in his throat. _You don't have to say it_ meant _I don't want to hear it_ , and he didn't want to hurt Geralt any more than he already had.

 _I love you_ , he screamed in his own mind instead. _I love you, I love you, I love you_. _And I would have taken it to my grave. I've loved you so long in silence, I thought I_ would _take it to my grave._

_I wish I had._

It had hurt to simply pine. But the outright rejection took that pain and amplified it tenfold.

He couldn't stay here. He couldn't stay here another minute with Geralt.

Not with his love bursting out of his chest and his best friend turning away.

Lip trembling, he tried to dart for the beaded curtain--to run away. All he had left was his ability to flee.

And yet, Geralt denied him even that. The witcher's hand darted out to grasp his elbow beneath the cloak, to stop him. "Jaskier. Wait, please."

Jaskier leveled a glare at Geralt and drew himself up to his full height. "If you are still my friend," he said, as evenly and with as much dignity as he could muster, "you will stay away from me right now."

Geralt's eyes went wide in surprise, then he immediately shrank, looking drained. His grip on the bard loosened. He all but let go. "Jaskier..."

"Please, Geralt," Jaskier said, voice quavering. Not quite a sob, but definitely a plea. "Please. I know you mean well. Even after all you've seen, and heard, and all I've...all I've _done_ to you, _oh gods_ \--"

He'd _forced_ Geralt's hand onto his cock. Jaskier had thought he'd wanted it, but Geralt had simply been having a hard time formulating how to extricate himself from the awkwardness of the situation. And then Jaskier--all naked, and (fuck it all) _hard_ \--had climbed _on top of him_ , and then, even when Geralt had told him in no uncertain terms that they _could not fuck,_ he'd persisted.

Shame, guilt, lust, longing, love--so many different emotions had swamped over Jaskier this evening. But this was the first time he felt revulsion. Horror. Horror at himself, for his own actions.

How _could_ Geralt remain his friend after all this?

He wrenched himself away, flying through the beaded curtain.

And Geralt let him go.

With tears blurring his vision, Jaskier threw the cloak's hood over his head--so that the other party guest wouldn't see him crying--and headed for the exit. He barely saw the bodies writhing, barely registered the heavy scent of sex in the air, barely heard the moans. All he could focus on was getting as far away from Geralt as possible.

He didn't return to the changing room for his clothes. After all, he couldn't escape back to the inn yet. It was still hours before midnight, before Valdo's carriage would arrive to take him away. Instead, he rushed past the attendant at the main entrance and out into the night. 

The moon was already high in the sky, and nearly full. All of the bushes and flowers and trees had silvery halos, and here and there lamps had been lit to offset the moonlight with a fire-warm glow.

He doubled over as soon as he was out the door, clutching at his chest, struggling to breathe. The air seemed even more sweetly perfumed than when he'd arrived, and it did nothing to help his lung capacity. His distress made even the fine fragrance of a flower garden seem suffocating. 

How had it come to this? How had this happened?

How had the best thing in his life gone to utter _shit?_

Suddenly, Jaskier caught movement out of the corner of his left eye. A dark shadow, there and then gone again. He startled and stood upright.

"Pst."

Jaskier looked around for the sound of the voice, but saw nothing.

"Pst, over here."

His gaze darted to the hedge maze, some dozen yards away.

There was the man in the winged mask, arms crossed as he leaned casually against the statue of a nymph which marked the maze's entrance. He waved subtly to Jaskier.

"What do you want?" Jaskier asked, more harshly than he'd meant to.

"I told you it wouldn't help," he called sympathetically, striding forward.

"It did worse than _not help_ ," Jaskier called back.

" _My_ love doesn't notice me, either," he said solemnly, coming to stand in front of Jaskier. He offered his hand, palm up, to the bard. "Stroll the maze with me?"

Jaskier regarded the hand suspiciously. "Why?"

The man slowly leaned forward, shrinking the space between them to whisper in Jaskier's ear.

Jaskier didn't jerk away.

"Perhaps we can _comfort_ one another," the man proposed, voice rich and suggestive. With the hand not offered, the stranger ran a filigree-tipped finger down the edge of Jaskier's borrowed cloak, flicking it to the side to reveal Jaskier's nakedness for a brief moment, exposing him to the moonlight.

Jaskier refused to demure.

"Only if you want to," the masked man reassured him as the cloak fluttered back into place.

Jaskier raised his hand, but still hesitated.

He could lose himself in a million men, and none of them would ever quell his desire for Geralt.

 _So, what are you supposed to do?_ he mocked himself. _Stay celibate and miserable?_

Setting his jaw, he slipped his palm firmly into the offered hand. "Lead the way."

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you for reading! Comments are <3


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